She had tried, more than once, to convince him not to do it.

She simply could not accept the idea; to her, donating his organs somehow felt like losing another piece of her son, like giving away parts of the boy she had raised.

And Mark, who knew his mother, knew that her grief was going to need somewhere to go, and that grief that cannot accept a thing often looks for someone to blame.

He worried that the someone would be me.

So he had written, in the letter, a single sentence that I have never forgotten: Protect my choice, not my reputation. I read it, and then I read it again, and then a third time.

He was asking me not to fight his mother.