People always said I had a big heart — kind, trusting, and full of love. I wore it like a badge of honor. But now, that same heart was failing me — literally. It was diseased, and I needed a risky, costly surgery most doctors refused to perform.
Worse, my heart had been broken too many times — by friends who disappeared, by men who lied, and most of all, by the father who walked out on me and my mother when I was just two. She had given up everything for me — her dreams, her education — but made sure I always felt loved. She even tried to soften my view of him. I never forgave him.
Years later, desperate for help, I went to see a top heart surgeon my mother recommended. When I heard his name — Dr. Smith — I thought it was coincidence. But when I saw him, I knew. He was my father.
He didn’t recognize me. I refused treatment. I told him he’d lost the right to call me his daughter the day he left. I stormed out and confronted my mother. She defended him — said he was a terrible father, but a brilliant doctor.
I refused to listen. My condition worsened. No one else would take my case. Even my boyfriend, Ernie, refused to help. Then one evening, my father showed up at my door. I was too tired to fight. He begged to help. I collapsed before I could answer.
I woke up in the hospital. A transplant had saved me. Confused, I asked how they found a donor so fast.
My mother broke down in tears. “He gave you his heart,” she said.
My father — the man I had hated for so long — gave his life so I could have mine.
That same day, I ended things with Ernie. No explanation. He hadn’t shown up when I needed him, not once.
Now, with a heart that beat strong in my chest, I vowed to live differently. My mother gave me a letter he left. One line stayed with me forever:
“I was a bad father all your life. So now, I want to finally be a real one and save you.”
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