I wanted to pretend none of it was happening.

I wanted to sit on that porch and feel my daughter kick and my husband’s hand on my belly and simply refuse the news, refuse the number, refuse all of it.

But Mark did not let me pretend.

He looked down at my belly, and he said the thing that broke my heart, quietly, as though he had already thought it through.

“If my organs are still healthy enough when the time comes,” he said, “I want them donated.” I turned toward him.

“Please don’t talk about dying while she’s kicking,” I whispered.