I met Daniel when I was twenty-eight.

He was warm, quick-witted, the kind of man who never forgot how you took your coffee or which movie line made you laugh. Two years later, we were married. Then came Ella, then Max. A quiet suburban house. School recitals. Weekend Costco runs.

It felt like the kind of life you could count on.

Then, two years ago, everything tilted.

Daniel was always tired. At first, we blamed deadlines, pressure, age creeping up on us.

Until one day his doctor called after a routine checkup and said something was very wrong with his blood work.

I can still picture the kidney specialist’s office. Diagrams of kidneys on the walls. Daniel’s leg bouncing uncontrollably. My hands locked together in my lap.

“Chronic kidney disease,” the doctor said gently. “Your kidneys are failing. We need to talk about the long term. Dialysis. A transplant.”

“A transplant?” I echoed. “From who?”

“Sometimes a spouse or family member is a match,” he explained. “We can test.”

“I’ll do it,” I said instantly, before I even looked at Daniel.

People later asked if I hesitated.

“Meredith, no,” Daniel said, shaking his head. “We don’t even know if—”

“Then we’ll find out,” I cut in. “Test me.”

I never doubted it.

I watched him fade for months. Watched exhaustion carve lines into his face, watched gray creep into his hair. Watched our children whisper, “Is Dad okay? Is he going to die?”

I would have given anything they asked for.

When they told us I was a match, I cried alone in the car. Daniel cried too. He held my face and whispered, “I don’t deserve you.”

I laughed and pretended that wasn’t a warning.

The surgery day blurred into cold hallways, IVs, and nurses repeating the same questions. In the pre-op ward, our beds sat side by side. He kept staring at me like I was both a miracle and a mistake.

“Are you sure?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said. “Ask me again after the meds wear off.”

He squeezed my hand. “I love you. I’ll spend the rest of my life making this up to you.”

Back then, it sounded like romance.

Later, it would sound like irony.

Recovery was brutal.

I woke up with a scar and a body that felt shattered. He woke up with a new kidney and a future. We shuffled through the house together, slow and fragile. The kids drew hearts on our pill bottles. Friends dropped off soups and casseroles.

At night, we lay side by side, sore and frightened.

“We’re a team,” he said. “You and me against everything.”

I believed him.

Eventually, life steadied. We went back to work. The kids went back to school. Worry shifted from survival to forgotten homework and missed lunches.

If this were a movie, it would have ended there.

But instead, things began to feel… off.

At first, it was subtle.

Daniel was always on his phone. Always working late. Always exhausted.