My wife left immediately.
When I got sick, it came on fast. My kidneys were failing, and the waiting list for a transplant felt like a sentence with no end date.
Michael found out, sat across from me at that same kitchen table where he used to do his homework, and said, without any drama, "Test me."
"Michael…"
"Just test me, Dad."
He was a match. He gave me one of his kidneys at 22, without hesitating, and without making me feel like I owed him anything for it.
When I woke up from surgery, Michael was sitting in the chair beside my bed.
I lost a daughter. I found a son. But life doesn't always hand you both in the same breath without making things complicated.
He gave me one of his kidneys at 22.
In the days leading up to my birthday, something felt off about Michael.
I told myself it was nothing. I was wrong.
***
The celebration was small, just the people closest to us: a few friends, my neighbor Carol, and two guys from my old job. Michael had helped me set up the backyard the night before, stringing lights along the fence, and he'd seemed fine then.
But that morning, I caught him standing at the kitchen window with his coffee going cold in his hand, staring at nothing.
"You okay, Mike?" I asked.
"Yeah, Dad," Michael said, turning with a smile that didn't quite reach. "Yeah, I'm good."
