The scalpel slipped. Or maybe I imagined it—I was so weak, so cold. Through the haze, I saw Hayden’s face, pale under the surgical lights. The doctor shouted something about incompatible blood types, a transfusion dilemma. One child. Two mothers. One choice.\n\nI remember mouthing Lily’s name. I remember his hesitation.\n\nThey told me later he said, ‘Save hers.’ Not mine. Not ours. Hers.\n\nNow, two years later, I stand at the edge of the Donovan winter gala, champagne in hand, Lily asleep upstairs. The doors open. And there he is—older, wearier, eyes locked on me like I’m a ghost he’s desperate to lay to rest.\n\nHe takes a step forward. My brothers tense. The room holds its breath.\n\nThis time, I get to decide: do I let him speak, turn away, or walk toward him and risk breaking all over again?