All my life, people said I had a big heart — kind and trusting, sometimes too much for this world. But now, my heart was literally failing, needing a risky surgery no one wanted to perform.
Doctors turned me away, saying the risks were too high. I was scared but not surprised — my heart had been broken many times before: by false lovers, absent friends, and most of all, my father, who left when I was two. My mother sacrificed everything to raise me alone, always full of love and strength, urging me to forgive him. But I never could.
When I met the doctor who could save me, I was stunned—it was Dr. Smith, my father’s last name. Despite my anger, I refused his help. He was the man who abandoned us.
After that day, my condition worsened. My partner, Ernie, ignored my needs. Then, unexpectedly, my father appeared at my door. He begged to help, admitting his mistakes and regrets. I wanted to refuse, but I was too weak to fight anymore.
I fainted and woke up in the hospital. The surgery was no longer an option—I needed a heart transplant. Later, my mother told me the donor was my father. He gave his life so I could live.
I was overwhelmed with emotions. The man I had resented all my life had saved me. I sent Ernie a final message: We are done.
With my new heart beating strong, I vowed to protect it — for him, for myself.
In a letter from my father, he wrote, “I was a bad father all your life, but now I want to be a real one and save you. That’s why people have children — to give life. I love you.”
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