Before My 19-Year-Old Son Died, He Donated His Heart to an 18-Year-Old Girl—Then Her Mother Handed Me a Letter: “Mom, There’s Something You Need to Know About Her”

I hated his calmness.

I hated every doctor who had made him think about death.

I hated the disease.

Mostly, I hated that my nineteen-year-old son was being more realistic than his mother.

“Please.”

His voice softened.

“If something in me can help somebody else live, I want that.”

I cried.