My husband once begged me with tears in his eyes to save his first love.

1.

My husband once begged me with tears in his eyes to save his first love by donating my bone marrow, and tonight I watched that same woman thank him for giving her a new life.

Not me.

Him.

My fingers froze around my phone as the screen glowed in the dark living room, and my chest tightened so suddenly that my breath caught halfway in my throat.

Camille’s post sat at the top of the screen, and it felt like the entire world had narrowed down to that one glowing image.

A picture of her standing beside William outside the hospital.

She looked pale and delicate, wrapped in a soft coat like someone who had suffered through something tragic, while William stood beside her, tall and calm, his hand resting lightly on her shoulder as if he had been the one carrying her through everything.

Supporting her.

Protecting her.

The caption sat under the picture.

"Thank you for giving me a second life. Thank you for standing beside me when I thought I would die. I will never forget what you did for me."

My stomach twisted, and my fingers slowly tightened around the phone forming half cresents pressed painfully into my palm.

My bones still ached from the surgery, and the dull pain had never really left my body.

But somehow that post hurt more.

I stared at the picture longer than I should have while my chest rose and fell slowly, and the quiet room seemed to close in around me.

William looked exactly the same.

Calm.

Protective.

The same way he used to look when he stood beside me.

Three months ago he stood in a hospital hallway begging me to save her life, and the memory came rushing back so clearly that it made my chest tighten.

I could still hear his voice.

"If you don't help her, she will die."

He had held my hands so tightly that night, and his fingers were shaking while his eyes looked red like he had not slept in days.

"You are the only match, Lily."

Only match.

His voice had broken when he said that, and the sound of it had made something deep inside my chest twist painfully.

"Please."

I had never heard William beg anyone before, because that man was not the kind who asked for anything.

But he begged me.

Because Camille was dying.

Because the woman he loved before me was lying in a hospital bed waiting for someone else's bone marrow.

I remembered how my chest tightened when he said it, and I remembered the fear that slowly crawled through my body.

Not fear of pain.

Fear of losing him.

Because the way he looked at me that night felt like everything depended on my answer, and the weight of his eyes made my heart pound painfully in my chest.

"I will never abandon you," he promised softly when the doctor explained the transplant, and his thumb brushed the back of my hand gently.

"I swear it."

I believed him, and that belief had been strong enough to push away every doubt that tried to rise in my chest.

I believed him enough to sign the consent forms, and I believed him enough to climb onto that hospital bed three days later.

I believed him enough to let them push thick needles into my bones while my body shook against the mattress.

The pain had been unbearable, and it had not been quick or clean.

It was deep and slow, and it felt like the pain had settled inside my bones where it refused to leave.

I remembered gripping the hospital sheet while sweat soaked the pillow under my head, and my breath came out broken while the machine beside me hummed quietly.

William had stood there the entire time while he held my hand and watched me suffer so Camille could live.

"You are so strong," he murmured once while he brushed the damp hair from my forehead.

"I will never forget this."

Another promise.

I stared at Camille’s post again, and my throat tightened while the bitter taste of something sharp rose slowly in the back of my mouth.

She thanked him.

Not me.

A quiet laugh slipped out of my lips before I could stop it, and the sound felt strange in the silent room.

Of course she thanked him.

He was the one standing beside her now, and he was the one people could see.

He was the one who looked like the hero.

My body slowly leaned back against the sofa while the dull ache in my bones pulsed again, spreading through my back and legs like a reminder of everything I had given away.

Three months had passed since the surgery, and three months had passed since I gave away a part of my body for the woman my husband once loved.

And William barely came home anymore.

At first it had been small things, and I told myself it meant nothing.

Late nights.

Missed dinners.

Phone calls he took outside.

But slowly the small things became something bigger, and before I realized it he had stopped asking how I felt.

He stopped checking if I had taken my medication, and he stopped caring whether I made it to my follow up appointments.

I swallowed slowly while my throat felt dry.

The doctor had warned me recovery would take time, and they had spoken carefully about monitoring and medication.

But William cancelled my hospital appointments two weeks after the surgery, and he said I was worrying too much.

He told me that I should rest instead of running to hospitals like a sick person.

"You agreed to do this," he said to me impatiently that night.

"Stop acting like you are dying." He had said, looking at me in disdain.