And every time I woke up, I told myself the same thing: “We did the right thing.” But my body no longer believed me.

Two years later, Bella had the accident. It was a rainy afternoon in Quezon City. Ernesto was driving her to a school competition when a pickup truck ran a red light. The impact sent them straight into a utility pole. Ernesto walked away with scrapes and a cut above his eyebrow. Bella didn’t.

When I reached the hospital, my daughter was hooked up to machines, her face swollen, her lips dry, and her body so small under the sheets that she looked nine years old again. The doctor spoke in words I didn’t understand at first. Severe renal damage. Complications. Dialysis. Transplant. Compatible donor.

“Her older brother would be the fastest option if they share compatibility,” he said. Brother. The word pierced me like a knife. Ernesto stood still. “No,” he said. The doctor looked at him. “No?” “That boy is not coming back to this family.”

I felt something inside me break again. But this time it wasn’t against Mark. It was against me. Because life, cruel as only life can be, was putting my daughter in a hospital bed and my son in the position of savior after we had treated him like a monster.

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