My father left when I was two. No goodbye, no explanation—just silence. My mother raised me alone, sacrificing everything to give me joy and stability. She never spoke ill of him, but I held onto my anger like armor. Years later, when my heart began to fail and no doctor dared operate, she sent me to a specialist. His name? Dr. Smith. I laughed bitterly—my father’s name. But surely, it was coincidence.
It wasn’t. The man who walked into the room was him. Older, grayer, unfamiliar yet unmistakable. He didn’t recognize me, but I knew. I refused his help, told him he’d forfeited the right to call me daughter. My pride roared louder than my failing heart. I stormed out, furious at my mother for sending me to him. She begged me to reconsider, but I wouldn’t. I’d rather die than let him save me.
Weeks passed. My condition worsened. My boyfriend drifted away. One night, my father came to my door. I was too weak to fight. He pleaded to help, confessed his regrets, and asked for a chance to be there now. I collapsed before I could answer. When I woke up, I’d had a heart transplant. Confused, I asked my mother how they found a donor so fast. Her answer shattered me: “He gave you his heart.”
The man I hated had given me life—again. I cried for everything lost and everything gained. I ended things with my boyfriend, who never showed up when I needed him. I placed my hand over my chest and felt the beat—his beat. I would protect this heart. For him. For me. In his final letter, he wrote: “I was a bad father all your life, so now I want to finally be a real one and save you.” He did.
