“Yes, but with the baby, we can manage it because we caught it early. But Mark… his heart is failing completely. He needs immediate stem cell therapy to stabilize the heart tissue before we can even attempt surgery. If he doesn’t get it, he won’t survive the night.”
The doctor looked me dead in the eye. “The problem is, compatible stem cells for this specific variant are virtually non-existent in the donor bank. Except for one source.”
He looked at the crib.
“Your son’s umbilical cord blood. It contains the perfect stem cells to save his father.”
I looked down at my hand, where my diamond wedding ring used to sit, now just a pale indentation on my finger. I looked at the floor, where my empty purse and crushed phone lay like a crime scene.
Mark had taken my money. He had taken my means of communication. He had tried to take my dignity.
But now, I held the one thing his money couldn’t buy.
I held his life in my hands.
“Does he know?” I asked, my voice so cold I barely recognized it.
“He’s awake. But we haven’t told him about the donor match yet. We needed your permission to use the cord blood.”
I took a deep breath, feeling a strength rising from the deepest part of my trauma. I wiped the remaining tears from my face.
“Get me a wheelchair,” I told the doctor. “I want to see my husband.”
The machines beeped rhythmically—beep… beep…—in the freezing ICU. Mark lay there, hooked up to tubes and wires. He looked pathetic and small, a far cry from the violent monster who had screamed in the delivery room two hours ago.
