I fell to my knees beside her.
“I’m so sorry,” I choked. “I was wrong. I was cruel. I didn’t understand. Please… forgive me.”
She shook her head gently.
“Don’t cry,” she said softly. “I just wanted to see you again.”
I agreed to the transplant immediately.
“Take whatever you need,” I told the doctors. “Just save her.”
The surgery lasted hours.
When I woke up, the doctor smiled.
“It was successful. You’re both stable.”
For the first time in years, I cried—not from pain, but from hope.
But hope didn’t last.
Days later, complications set in.
My body struggled.
Her body fought infection.
Then… she slipped into a coma.
I sat by her side, hour after hour, whispering apologies she might never hear.
Until one morning—
“Dad…”
Her voice was faint.
But it was real.
I rushed to her side.
“I’m here,” I whispered. “I’m not going anywhere.”
She smiled, weak but peaceful.
“Just live well,” she said. “That’s enough for me.”
We spent weeks recovering together.
Talking. Laughing quietly. Relearning each other.
I brushed her hair. Brought her food. Sat beside her like I should have all along.
It felt like we had been given a second chance.
But some things don’t heal in time.
One morning, I reached for her hand…
and it was still.