I gave dad my left kidney. Recovery took 9 weeks. At the family dinner, mom toasted: ‘To your sister — who organized the fundraiser and saved your father’s life.’ 22 relatives clinked glasses. No one looked at me. I stood up. Dad grabbed my wrist. His eyes were wet. He slid a napkin across the table. It read: ‘We received a report from-

I woke up in a dim, sterile recovery room. The pain was searing, a blinding, white-hot agony that radiated from my abdomen and pulsed with every breath. It felt as though someone had left a lit blowtorch inside my ribs. I tried to cry out, but my throat was a desert, parched from the intubation tube.

I blinked against the harsh fluorescent lights, desperately searching the shadows of the room. I expected to see my mother sitting in the corner, reading a book. I expected to see Natalie scrolling on her phone. I just wanted someone to hold my hand, to offer a chip of ice, to tell me that my father was alive and that my sacrifice hadn’t been in vain.

The room was utterly, devastatingly empty.

A nurse eventually drifted in to check my vitals. I managed to croak out a question. “Where is my family?”

The nurse offered a sympathetic, pitying smile that made my stomach churn. “They’re up in the ICU with your father, sweetie. They haven’t left his side.”