But after reading his words — after reading her son explain, in his own hand, why he had chosen what he chose, and after reading him tell her, gently, from beyond his own death, that she was allowed to be angry with him — something in her had changed.

She understood, finally, what she had not been able to understand before: that this had never been my decision to make or unmake.

It had always been his.

I had not taken her son’s organs from her.

Her son had given them, freely, himself, and had left her a letter explaining why, and asking only that she let herself grieve however she needed to.

There was no one to fight.