My husband became an organ donor as his final wish — after he d*ed, his doctor stopped me and said, “There’s something he made me promise to give you only after he was gone.”

Mark’s eyes.

Mark’s exact eyes — the particular shade of grey-green, the slight downward tilt at the outer corners.

It hit me somewhere behind the sternum.

“Hi,” he said.

“Hi,” I said.

“I’m Sarah.”

“I’m Daniel.” He held up the structure he’d been building.

“This is a rocket.”

“It’s a very good rocket.”

He considered this seriously.

“It needs more on top,” he said, and went back to work.

Diane caught my eye from the doorway.

She had seen my face when I first looked at him.

She gave me a small, careful nod.

We sat in the kitchen while Daniel built his rocket and periodically reported on its progress through the doorway.

Diane made coffee.

I had decaf.

We talked for nearly two hours.

She told me about the early years — how she had tried to reach Mark when Daniel was born, how he hadn’t responded, how she had eventually stopped trying.