My mother did not come to the hospital to hold my hand.

A week passed in the ICU. The physical trauma to my brain had put my fragile body under immense stress. My skin had taken on a terrifying, jaundiced yellow hue. I was slipping away.

Without the constant barrage of texts from my mother demanding money, the hospital room felt incredibly quiet. It was the first time in my adult life I was allowed to just exist without being a financial utility for someone else.

But freedom meant nothing if I didn't survive to enjoy it.

On Tuesday evening, Dr. Aris walked into my room. He didn't have his usual stoic, clinical expression. He was practically vibrating with adrenaline.

“Clara,” he said, grabbing the railing of my bed. “We have a match.”

My breath hitched. “What?”

“A trauma victim in Portland. Perfect tissue match. Perfect blood type. The liver is pristine,” Dr. Aris said, checking his watch. “It’s being flown in by helicopter right now. We prep for surgery in one hour.”

Tears spilled over my cheeks, soaking into the bandages still wrapped around my head. For years, my family had told me that my health issues were an inconvenience to them. My mother once complained that my dialysis appointments were interrupting her book club schedule.

Now, on the brink of death, the universe was handing me a second chance.

The prep was a blur of bright lights, paperwork, and the heavy, sweet smell of anesthesia. As they wheeled my gurney down the long hallway toward the operating theater, I looked up at the ceiling tiles passing by in a blur.

I thought about the $300,000 sitting safely in my account. I thought about my mother wearing a bright orange jumpsuit. I thought about Julian realizing his tech-startup dreams were dead because he had no actual talent.