My husband had spent years warning me never to set foot on that farm. So after he passed away and the lawyer handed me the key, saying that from now on the place belonged to me, I was ready to sell it right away and put everything behind me. But before making my final decision, I still wanted to see it once for myself. When the door opened, I finally understood why, all those years, he had never wanted me to set foot there.

Part of me felt a quick, shameful flare of something like cruel symmetry. Another part felt only exhaustion. Illness does not redeem people, but it does complicate hatred.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” I said carefully.

He inclined his head, accepted the courtesy, and kept going.

“My specialists believe I may need a transplant. There’s a problem with compatibility. Our family has uncommon blood and tissue markers.”

A shape began forming in my mind before he said it.

Dr. Harmon took over in the gentle, professional cadence of a man who had clearly been asked to deliver the medically respectable version of something morally appalling.

“Based on the genetic profile available through your late husband’s records, there is a meaningful possibility your daughter could be a match for certain forms of living donation.”

The words seemed to arrive from a great distance.

“You want Jenna tested,” I said.

“Only preliminary blood work,” Allan said quickly. “At this stage.”

“And if she is compatible?”

Robert answered this time, eyes fixed on me. “Then we would hope she might consider becoming a donor.”