There was also a handwritten letter from my brother. His handwriting resembled Mom’s, particularly the large loops he formed beneath the letter J, and the resemblance made the connection feel unexpectedly personal.
Sam introduced himself as a sixty-three-year-old chemistry teacher who loved football, baseball, and science-fiction movies. He described his wife Carol, their daughter Jenna, and their grandchildren, Lucy and Max, before explaining his illness and the need for a transplant.
He made it clear that he didn’t expect me to become a donor simply because we were related. Although he hoped I would consider testing, he wanted to meet me even if I wasn’t compatible or decided not to participate.
“You don’t owe me anything, Annie. I would still like to meet you, even if all we ever get is one conversation.”
By the time I finished reading, I was crying. I knelt beside Mom’s recliner and embraced her, telling her that the frightened seventeen-year-old girl she had once been deserved compassion rather than lifelong punishment.
