Part 4: Grief Needed Someone to Blame
Two days later, Violet came to the house.
I found her standing in Cecelia’s nursery, folding a pink blanket that had already been folded perfectly.
“Violet?”
She didn’t turn around.
“Did they take everything?”
For a moment, I didn’t understand.
“From Mark,” she added.
I swallowed.
“They’ll only recover what can actually be donated.”
She held the blanket more tightly.
“And you’re okay with that?”
“No.”
“You seem okay.”
“What exactly am I supposed to look like?”
She turned toward me.
“His heart. His skin. His eyes. Pieces of my son are going to strangers.”
“They don’t transplant whole eyes.”
“You know what I mean.”
“Corneal tissue can sometimes be donated.”
She gave a bitter laugh.
“Does using a medical term make it less horrible?”
“No.”
Her face crumpled.
“How am I supposed to live knowing pieces of my child are somewhere with people I’ll never meet?”
“Because Mark chose it.”
“You agreed.”
“Yes.”
“And that doesn’t bother you?”
“Of course it bothers me.”
I could feel my own anger rising.
“Honoring what he wanted doesn’t mean losing him hurt less.”
Violet looked down at my belly.
Then she said the thing that would stay with me for weeks.
“You still get part of him.”
My hand immediately moved over Cecelia.
“Don’t.”
Her eyes lifted.
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t bring my daughter into this.”
She left without another word.
I told myself she was grieving.
I told myself to be patient.
At Mark’s memorial, patience became harder.
One of his uncles hugged me near the flowers.
“Mark was helping people right until the end.”
His aunt nodded.
“You must be proud of him.”
“Proud?”
Violet’s voice cut through the room.
I turned.
“Violet.”
“She doesn’t get to be proud of this.”
The nearby conversations stopped.
Violet looked directly at me.
“My son could barely walk across a room in those last weeks. And now everyone expects me to believe he calmly made all these decisions?”
“He did make them.”
“You agreed to it.”
“Yes,” I said. “I carried out my husband’s final wish.”
Her eyes filled.
“At least you’re finally being honest.”
My pulse pounded.
I could have defended myself.
I could have told everyone exactly what Mark had said on the porch.
I could have described the conversations, the paperwork, his insistence.
Instead, I said, “We’re not doing this here.”
“Because you can’t?”
“Because this day is supposed to be about Mark.”
I walked away.
I thought refusing to fight was an act of kindness.
By the end of the evening, I realized my silence had created room for suspicion.
Mark’s aunt approached me near the door.
“Sally, can I ask you something?”
I already knew I wouldn’t like the question.
“What?”
“Was Mark taking medication near the end that might have affected his judgment?”
I stared at her.
“Excuse me?”
“Violet just wondered whether maybe he wasn’t thinking clearly.”
“He knew exactly what he wanted.”
“I’m not accusing you.”
“Yes, you are.”
She lowered her eyes.
“You’re asking whether I pushed my dying husband into a decision he didn’t understand.”
She said nothing.
That night, I went into Cecelia’s nursery.
I opened my laptop.
And for the first time, I inserted the flash drive.
Part 5: Mark’s Last Defense of Me
Mark appeared on the screen.
He looked thinner than the man living in my memory.
His face was pale. His shoulders seemed smaller.
For a moment, I couldn’t breathe.
Then he spoke.
“If you turned this on because you miss me, shut it off.”
I covered my mouth.
A laugh escaped through my tears.
“You don’t get to boss me around anymore.”
On the video, Mark shifted in his chair.
“I mean it, Sal.”
Then his expression changed.
“My mom asked me not to donate.”
I leaned closer.
“She’s asked more than once. And eventually she started asking whether this was really my decision… or yours.”
My stomach tightened.
“I told her the decision was mine.”
He dragged his hands slowly over his face.
“She hates the idea that strangers might receive something from me after I’m gone. I understand that. I really do.”
He paused.
“But grief doesn’t give anyone permission to turn you into the villain.”
My breath caught.
Mark looked straight into the camera.
“Don’t protect me by letting her hurt you.”
Tears began sliding down my face.
“And don’t let Cecelia grow up hearing that her father was too confused or too weak to make his own choices.”
I hit pause.
The room went silent.
“You knew.”
My voice sounded strange.
I stood.
“You knew this might happen.”
Anger rose through the grief.
“And you didn’t tell me.”
I pressed both hands over my belly.
“I was your wife, Mark. You didn’t have to protect me from everything.”
It was the first time I had been angry with him since he died.
The anger frightened me.
It also felt necessary.
Because grief had been turning Mark into something flawless.
And the truth was, he had still been my husband.
Stubborn.
Protective.
Occasionally infuriating.
Even at the end.
Two days later, Violet came over carrying an embroidered baby blanket.
“I’ve been thinking,” she said. “Cecelia should carry Mark’s name somehow.”
I stared at her.
“We already chose her name.”
“She should have something from her father.”
“She has a father. She doesn’t need his name attached to hers to prove that.”
Violet looked toward my stomach.
“Mark told me he was reconsidering.”
“No, he didn’t.”
“You weren’t part of every conversation between us.”
“And you weren’t part of every conversation between Mark and me.”
Her expression sharpened.
“He kept things from you too.”
That hurt.
Because it was true.
But truth used as a weapon was still a weapon.
“Mark and I chose Cecelia’s name together.”
“Sally—”
“Go home.”
She blinked.
“What?”
“I said go home.”
Her face changed.
“You’ve questioned whether Mark knew what he was doing. You’ve let other people question whether I manipulated him. And now you’re trying to rewrite what he wanted for our daughter.”
Tears filled her eyes.
“I lost my son.”
“I know.”
“You have no idea what that feels like.”
“No. I don’t.”
I stepped closer.
“But you don’t know what it feels like to bury my husband while carrying the daughter he will never meet.”
Violet fell silent.
“We are allowed to hurt differently,” I said. “But we are not allowed to destroy each other because of it.”
She left.
And for the first time, I stopped feeling guilty for setting a boundary.
