The fluorescent lights of the hospital room were now a fading memory, replaced by the comforting chaos of home. I stood in the kitchen, the familiar scent of coffee mingling with the soft sounds of Tristan’s laughter echoing from the living room. Andrew had stayed home with him, and I could hear their playful banter drifting through the open doorway, a much-needed balm for my worn out nerves.
Tristan was feeling better after his hospital stay; he had regained his energy and was back to his spirited self. But I couldn’t shake the anxiety that had settled in my chest ever since we received the news about his condition.
I had refused to let a random person be a potential donor. The thought of some stranger being responsible for my son’s health was unbearable. So when the doctor had called
