eight.
By the time Lily was ten, payments were arriving almost every month.
Nearly eighteen years of statements stretched in front of me.
By noon, I’d filled three pages with dates, accounts, and amounts.
But I no longer needed numbers.
I needed Rebecca.
I called the transplant coordinator.
“My name is Laura C. My son was Ethan C.”
A pause followed.
“Yes. I remember.”
“I need Rebecca’s contact information.”
Another pause.
“I’m sorry?”
“The mother of the girl who received Ethan’s heart.”
“I’m afraid I can’t provide that.”
“She came to his funeral. She gave me a letter from my son.”
“I understand, but I can’t release the recipient family’s private information.”
“Even if I know her name?”
“That doesn’t change our privacy rules.”
I got up and paced.
“Can you call her?”
“I can pass along a request for contact.”
“How long will that take?”
“I can’t promise she’ll
