Chapter 4: Heartbeats and Goodbyes

Marcus sat in the passenger seat, glancing at me nervously the whole drive.

He kept fiddling with the radio, turning the volume up and down. Searching for something to say.

At a red light, I took a deep breath.

The silence was suffocating. I gripped the steering wheel, knuckles white. Forced the words out.

"Marcus, I’m going through with the heart transplant."

Marcus stared at me, stunned.

He turned in his seat, mouth open. "Chris, you finally made up your mind!"

I just nodded. Silent.

There was nothing left to say. The decision had been made for me.

After Savannah got pregnant, I worked nonstop to earn money. On my fourth straight night of overtime, I collapsed at my desk.

The memory was hazy—blinding lights, the sharp smell of antiseptic, Marcus’s worried face hovering over me.

When I woke up, the doctor told me I had heart failure. Without a transplant, I might not make it through the year.

The words had sounded unreal at first. Like they belonged to someone else’s life.

Marcus said the hospital had a suitable donor heart right now, but the cost was overwhelming. Even with insurance and savings, it was a huge sum. Instead of risking it all on a surgery with lousy odds, I’d rather leave the money to Savannah and the baby.

I’d crunched the numbers a hundred times, convinced myself it was the right thing to do. I wanted them to have a future, even if I wasn’t in it.

But now, there was no point.

The future I’d imagined was gone. I felt hollow. Like a ghost haunting my own life.

No sooner had I dropped Marcus off than my mother-in-law texted:

[When are you sending the money? Unbelievable. If I don’t ask, you just don’t pay, is that it?]

Her messages always came late at night, like she knew I’d be too tired to argue. I stared at the screen, feeling a familiar wave of resentment.

My brother-in-law was deep in gambling debt, and my mother-in-law, always claiming she was too sick to work, refused to lift a finger. I paid all their bills.

Rent, utilities, even groceries—I’d covered it all, thinking it would buy me some peace. It never did.

I hesitated, thumb hovering over the screen, but finally pressed delete. Enough was enough.

Soon enough, Savannah called.

Her name lit up my phone. For a second, I almost didn’t answer. But old habits die hard.

She tried to sound strong, but I could hear the weakness in her voice after giving birth.

There was a tremor in her words, the kind that comes from exhaustion and pain.

"Chris, are you blind? Didn’t you see my mom’s message?"

Her tone was sharp, impatient. Like I was just another item on her to-do list.

"You’re useless. I’m already exhausted in the hospital—can you stop making my life harder?"

I could picture her rolling her eyes, the way she always did when she was annoyed with me.

She’d said things like that before.

It was almost routine by now. I’d learned to brace myself for it.

When I was first diagnosed with heart failure, I lied and told her it was just overwork so she wouldn’t worry.

I wanted to protect her, even if it meant suffering alone.

That was the first time I’d ever taken a sick day. The first time I hadn’t made her breakfast before she woke up.

It felt wrong, like I was breaking some sacred promise.

I felt awful.

The guilt ate at me all day. I replayed the conversation over and over in my head.

When Savannah got up, she just glanced at my pale face and left.

She didn’t ask if I was okay. Didn’t even pause. I told myself she was just tired.

When she came back, she poured the coffee she’d bought all over me.

The hot liquid soaked through my shirt, burning my skin. I gasped, more from shock than pain.

"It’s just overtime, right? Look, I see other people working late and they don’t complain. You’re just making excuses. I must’ve done something awful in a past life to end up married to you!"

Her words stung more than the coffee. I felt small. Powerless.

I just sat there, staring at the floor. Waiting for the world to start making sense again.

"Savannah… I’m sorry. I really don’t feel well today."

My voice was barely audible, but she didn’t seem to care.

"I’m pregnant and I don’t feel well either. So what, if I don’t feel well I can just get rid of the baby?"

The words echoed in the kitchen, sharp and final. I felt like I was drowning.

When she said she’d abort the child, I forced myself out of bed and made her favorite breakfast—pancakes and bacon.

I stood at the stove, hands shaking, pouring batter onto the griddle. The smell of frying bacon filled the apartment, but she barely touched her plate.

I kept telling myself it was just mood swings from pregnancy.

I clung to that excuse, desperate to believe things would get better.

But now I realize, those words weren’t just anger—they were her real feelings.

Looking back, it was all so clear. I just didn’t want to see it.

I stayed quiet too long, and Savannah snapped,

Her voice snapped through the phone, pulling me back to the present.

"Chris, are you trying to die or what?"

I let out a bitter laugh and replied,

The sound was hollow, even to my own ears. "Got it."

Then I hung up.

The silence that followed was deafening. I stared at my reflection in the darkened window, wondering how I’d gotten here.