Then, six months into my pregnancy, Miles got sick. The doctors gave him no more than three months to live. He probably wouldn’t survive long enough to actually meet her.
One evening, we sat together on the porch again, while Adeline kicked hard enough to make my whole shirt visibly move. Miles watched that particular spot for a few seconds, then rested his hand gently over it. “If they can genuinely use anything, when the time actually comes, I want to donate.” I turned toward him sharply. “Please don’t talk about dying, while she’s kicking right now.” “That’s exactly why I actually have to, sweetheart.” “Miles.” His thumb moved slowly across my stomach. “If I can’t watch her grow up myself, maybe somebody else gets considerably more time with their own family instead.”
“Don’t make dying sound genuinely noble. I’m already angry enough about all of this.” “I’m scared too, Sal.” His eyes finally lifted to meet mine. “I don’t know how to actually do this without you, Miles.” “You don’t have to know that part yet.” “What if I genuinely never know?” He stayed quiet a moment. “Then you’ll simply make it up as you go along.” I looked away from him. “That’s a genuinely terrible plan.” “It’s the only honest one I actually have.” I hated that particular answer intensely.
By my eighth month, Miles had grown weaker considerably faster than either of us had actually expected. One morning I found him standing in front of our bedroom mirror, struggling with his own shirt buttons. “Give me that.” “I’ve genuinely got it, Bridget.” “You’ve put the third button through the fourth hole.” He looked down. “Fashion,” he offered weakly. “You look like a genuinely confused accordion.” That pulled a tired laugh out of him regardless.
I stepped closer and fixed the buttons myself. His hands had started shaking considerably more often by then. “Don’t look at me like that,” he said quietly. “Like what, exactly?” “Like you’re memorizing me.” I stopped moving. “I wasn’t doing that.” “You genuinely were.” I finished the last button and smoothed his collar carefully. “I want to remember everything, so I can properly tell our daughter exactly who you really were.”
His expression changed at that, but before either of us could say anything more, he caught hold of my wrist gently. “My mom asked about the donation again.”
Charlotte had always been genuinely warm toward me. When morning sickness flattened me completely, she’d shown up carrying groceries and tiny yellow socks, because, according to her own logic, “That baby is going to drown in pink otherwise.” “I’ll talk to her about it,” I told my husband. “No,” he said firmly. “Why not?” “Because she’ll actually listen to you.” I frowned. “That’s usually a genuinely good thing.” “Not this particular time.” “What happened, exactly?”
Miles sat down on the edge of the bed. “She thinks I shouldn’t donate at all.” “She told you that directly?” “More than once, actually.” “Did she say why?” He looked down at his own hands. “She genuinely can’t handle the idea that something of mine might end up belonging to somebody else entirely.”
I sat down beside him. “She’s losing her own son, Miles. I can’t exactly be angry at her words over it…” “I know that.” “Then maybe she simply needs real time.” “She needs something to actually be angry at,” he said. His eyes met mine directly. “And I genuinely don’t want that particular something to be you.” I squeezed his hand tight. “You’re asking me to stay entirely out of it.” “I’m asking you not to make her own grief your personal job to manage.”
A few weeks later, Miles began asking to speak with Dr. Holloway entirely alone. The first time, I teased him gently about it. The second time, I stayed close by the door instead. “What exactly are you arranging in there?” Miles leaned back against his pillows. “Something I genuinely need to handle myself.” “Without me?” “Yes. But it’s genuinely for you.” I stared at him. “That’s somehow considerably worse, Miles.” A faint smile touched his mouth regardless. “Please just trust me on this.” “I do trust you completely.” “Then let me handle this one particular thing myself.” I nodded finally.
When Dr. Holloway closed that door, I stayed out in the hallway considerably longer than I actually meant to. I genuinely hated not knowing. Still, I let him keep his particular secret.
Miles died on a rainy Tuesday afternoon, my own hand wrapped tight around his. Afterward, the donation team explained everything that depended on medical suitability. I answered their questions and signed whatever needed signing. Whenever someone asked about Miles’s actual wishes, I gave the exact same answer every single time. “Yes. This is genuinely what he wanted.”
Then Dr. Holloway stopped me out in that hallway.
At home that same night, I finally opened the envelope. Inside sat a small flash drive and one folded note. “Please don’t watch this because you genuinely miss me. Watch it instead, if somebody ever makes you doubt me, Bridget. And more importantly, if someone ever makes you doubt yourself.”
I read it twice through. “You’re dead,” I told the note out loud. “You genuinely don’t get to give instructions anymore.” Adeline kicked hard beneath my ribs right then. I looked down at my own stomach. “Your father is genuinely annoying me from beyond the grave already. He deserved that particular kick.” I put the flash drive carefully away.
