I once believed the hardest thing I would ever do for my marriage was give up a part of my own body. Becoming a kidney donor for my husband felt like the ultimate act of love, the kind of sacrifice people talk about in quiet, reverent tones.
I never imagined that the real test would come later, when trust itself began to unravel.
The kind of life many people our age work hard to build and then hope will carry them gently forward.
I met my husband, Daniel, when I was twenty-eight. He had an easy smile and a way of paying attention that made you feel seen. He remembered small things, like how I took my coffee and which movies I could quote word for word.
We married a couple of years later and settled into what felt like a solid rhythm.
Two children followed, Ella and then Max. We bought a house in a quiet neighborhood. Weekends were filled with errands, school events, and family dinners.
It felt like a life you could rely on.
Then, about two years ago, everything began to shift.
At first, it was subtle. Daniel was tired more often. He brushed it off as work stress or getting older. We were both busy, both juggling careers and kids, and it was easy to accept simple explanations. But the exhaustion didn’t pass. He grew pale and withdrawn. Even the children noticed.
A routine doctor’s visit changed everything.
