His Wife, His Death Sentence

Today was my fifth wedding anniversary. It was also the day a doctor told me I had, at most, three months left to live.

My single remaining kidney was failing, a complication from the surgery where I gave my other kidney to my wife, Senator Eleanor Horton.

Then I saw her, walking out of the Capitol building, not alone. She was with Hudson Stewart, her college sweetheart, and he kissed her, a long, deep kiss, right there on the steps.

Later, Hudson found me, offering five million dollars to disappear. He looked at me with contempt, like I was something he' d scraped off his shoe.

I remembered overhearing Eleanor tell Hudson, "It's not love. It's... gratitude. A responsibility." My love was a commodity, my sacrifice a transaction.

A sharp pain shot through my side. My phone buzzed. A text from Hudson: a picture of him and Eleanor in my bed, captioned, She's mine now. Always was.

I was Jefferson Byrd, a kid from foster care, who had loved her for ten years, since I saved her life with my kidney. I thought her gratitude had turned into love. I was a fool.

My phone rang. It was Eleanor, her voice fake, promising a surprise.

Then I heard Hudson's voice, and a kiss. The line went dead.

Any last, stupid flicker of hope I had died with it.