The morning of the transplant was a blur of sterile lights, murmured reassurances, and the quiet weight of anticipation.
Lauren was there before sunrise, standing by Larry’s bedside as the nurses prepped him. He looked pale but steady, his fingers laced with hers as if grounding himself in her presence.
Margaret hovered nearby, her arms crossed, her expression unreadable. Emily stood behind Lauren, her presence a quiet strength.
Larry gave Lauren a smirk, though there was exhaustion in his eyes. “You’re squeezing my hand too hard.”
Lauren barely loosened her grip. “Deal with it.”
He exhaled, shifting slightly on the bed. “You okay?”
She blinked. Was she okay?
No. She wasn’t. The thought of him going into surgery, of the what-ifs, the possibilities that things could go wrong, made he
