Chapter 2

Three months later, the wedding photos sat in a box, unlooked at. Morning sickness had hit me hard. I’d had to quit my job at the coffee shop. Mike’s “startup” was supposedly "stabilizing," but money was still tight. The real storm hit on a Tuesday. Dad called, his voice weak, breathless. “Sarah… hospital… can’t breathe good.” I rushed to County General. The doctor, a tired-looking woman with kind eyes, sat us down in a small, sterile room. “It’s pneumoconiosis,” she said gently. “Dust lung. Common in long-haul truckers from years back. His lungs are severely damaged.” She paused. “He needs a lung transplant. Urgently.” The words hung in the air, heavy, suffocating. “Transplant?” I whispered. “How much…?” “It’s an expensive procedure, Ms. Jenkins. And the aftercare is significant.” The figures she mentioned made my head spin. Hundreds of thousands. My first call was to Mike. He listened, a long silence on the other end of the line. “Mike? Did you hear me? Dad needs surgery.” “Yeah, I heard,” he finally said, his voice flat. “That’s… a lot.” “I know, but your company… you said it was doing better. Can we…?” “Sarah, the company is still on a knife’s edge. That fifty thousand? It just plugged a hole. We’re barely solvent. My accounts? I’ve got maybe a few hundred bucks.” A few hundred? After Dad sold his Harley? “But… you promised,” I stammered. “You said it was for our future.” “And it is!” he snapped, a sudden anger in his tone. “But this? Your dad suddenly needing a fortune? It sounds like… like you guys are trying to squeeze me.” “Squeeze you?” I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. “He’s dying, Mike!” “People get sick, Sarah. It’s not my fault he didn’t have better insurance or savings. This feels like a setup. First the wedding, now this. Trying to get your hands on my startup money.” My blood ran cold. “Startup money? That was Dad’s Harley money!” “It’s my company’s money now! And frankly, Sarah, this whole situation… a baby, a sick father… it’s a lot. I’m trying to build a future, and all these… burdens.” He sighed, a sound of profound weariness. “Look, Sarah,” his voice softened, became persuasive. “Maybe… maybe this isn’t the right time for a baby. With all this stress, your health, my business… it’s not fair to bring a child into this mess.” “What are you saying?” “I’m saying, maybe we should reconsider. For the baby’s sake. So it doesn’t have to suffer because we’re struggling.” He talked about options, about how it would be “our secret,” how we could try again when things were “stable.” He made it sound logical, responsible. He made me feel like my desperation for my father, my love for our unborn child, were obstacles. He wore me down with his calm, reasonable tone, painting a picture of a life unburdened, a future he could actually build if only… if only. Two days later, I was at a clinic. Alone. The procedure was quick, impersonal. The emptiness inside me was a vast, echoing cavern. Mike said it was for the best. He said it would free us up to focus on what mattered: his success. My father was gasping for air in a hospital bed, and I had just ended a life. For Mike’s dream.