One morning, I found him standing in front of our bedroom mirror struggling with his shirt buttons.

“Give me that.”

“I’ve got it.”

“You put the third button into the fourth hole.”

He looked down.

“Fashion.”

“You look like a confused accordion.”

That managed to pull a tired laugh from him.

I stepped closer and fixed his shirt.

His hands had begun trembling more often.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he said.

“Like what?”

“Like you’re memorizing me.”

I stopped.

“I wasn’t.”

“You were.”

I finished the last button and straightened his collar.

“I want to remember everything so I can tell our daughter who you really were.”

His expression changed.

Then he caught my wrist.

“My mom asked about the donation again.”

Violet had always been warm with me.

During the worst weeks of morning sickness, she showed up with groceries and tiny yellow socks because, according to her, our baby was going to “drown in pink.”

“I’ll talk to her,” I said.

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because she’ll listen to you.”

“That’s normally a good thing.”

“Not this time.”

I sat beside him.

“What happened?”

Mark looked down at his hands.

“She thinks I shouldn’t donate.”

“She actually told you that?”

“More than once.”

“Why?”

He hesitated.

“She can’t handle the idea that something of mine might belong to someone else.”

I squeezed his hand.

“She’s losing her son, Mark. I can’t exactly be angry at her for saying things out of grief.”

“I know.”

“Maybe she just needs time.”

“She needs something to be angry at.”

Then he looked directly at me.

“And I don’t want that something to be you.”

I squeezed his hand harder.

“You’re asking me to stay out of it.”

“I’m asking you not to make her grief your responsibility.”

A few weeks later, Mark started asking to speak with Dr. Rivers alone.

The first time, I teased him.

The second time, I stopped beside the door.

“What are you arranging?”

Mark leaned back against the pillows.

“Something I need to handle.”

“Without me?”

“Yes. But it’s for you.”

“That somehow makes it worse.”

A faint smile crossed his face.

“Please trust me.”

“I do trust you.”

“Then let me handle this one thing myself.”

I nodded.

When Dr. Rivers closed the door, I remained in the hallway longer than I should have.

I hated not knowing.

Still, I let Mark keep his secret.

Mark died on a rainy Tuesday with my hand wrapped around his.

Afterward, the donation team explained that everything depended on medical suitability.

I answered the necessary questions.

Signed the forms.

Whenever anyone asked about Mark’s wishes, I gave the same answer.

“Yes. This is what he wanted.”

Then Dr. Rivers stopped me in the hallway and handed me the envelope.

That night, I finally opened it.

Inside was a flash drive and a folded note.

Please don’t watch this because you miss me.

Watch it if somebody makes you doubt me, Sally.

And more importantly, if somebody makes you doubt yourself.

I read it twice.

“You’re d3ad,” I told the note. “You don’t get to give me instructions anymore.”

Cecelia kicked beneath my ribs.

I looked down.

“Your father is annoying me from beyond the grave. He deserved that.”

Then I put the flash drive away.

Two days later, Violet came over.

I found her in Cecelia’s nursery, refolding a pink blanket.

“Violet?”

She looked at me.

“Did they take everything?”

I stopped in the doorway.

“What?”

“From Mark.”

“They’ll only use what can actually be donated.”

She gripped the blanket tightly.

“And you’re fine with that?”

“I’m not fine.”

“You’re acting fine.”

“What would you prefer?”

She stared at me.

“His heart. His skin. His eyes. All those things are going to strangers.”

“They don’t transplant someone’s entire eyes.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Corneal tissue can be donated.”

She laughed bitterly.

“Does using a nicer phrase make it easier?”

“No.”

Her mouth trembled.

“How am I supposed to live knowing something that belonged to my son is out there with strangers?”

“Because Mark was okay with it.”

“You agreed to this.”

“Yes.”

I swallowed.

“That doesn’t mean it was easy.”

Then Violet looked at my stomach.

“You still get part of him.”

My hand moved protectively over Cecelia.

“Don’t.”

“What?”

“Don’t put her in this.”

Violet walked out without answering.

At Mark’s memorial, things became worse.

One of his uncles hugged me near the flowers.

“Mark was helping people right until the end.”

His aunt nodded.

“You must be proud.”

“Proud?”

Violet had appeared behind us.

I turned.

“Violet.”

“She doesn’t get to be proud of this.”

Everyone nearby went silent.

“Mark could barely walk across a room,” she continued. “But we’re supposed to believe he calmly decided all of this?”

“He did.”

“You agreed to it.”

“Yes, Violet. I honored my husband’s final wish.”

Her eyes filled with tears

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