St. Brigid’s assigned Wyatt his own donor team — a separate doctor, a social worker, a nurse whose only job was looking out for him. They told him, over and over, that he could stop at any point, for any reason, and nobody would ever be told why. Wyatt listened politely and kept showing up.
Blood tests. Scans. Interviews. More blood tests.
Some nights, he came home quiet. One evening in June, I found him sitting in his car in the driveway with the engine off, staring at nothing.
I got in the passenger seat.
“You can stop,” I said. “You know that, right? Anytime. Even the day of. Nobody would ever blame you. I would never blame you.”
“I know.”
“I mean it, Wyatt. You’re my only child. You’re all I’ve got. If you’re doing this because you feel guilty, or because Dale made you feel like you owe them —”
