The Diagnosis That Changed Everything

"I don't want plain water. I want Coke."

My nephew, Zac Reacher, flipped the cup with a loud clatter and shouted at the top of his lungs.

"We're out of Coke at home. Drink some water first. Grandma will buy more for you this afternoon," my mother said softly, still smiling even as the spilled hot water splashed onto her.

I opened my eyes to this scene and jolted upright from my chair.

"I'll go. I'll go buy it now. If Zac doesn't like water, he doesn't have to drink it. Zac, Aunt Sonya will go get you a big bottle of Coke," I said as I hurried toward the door.

Only after stepping outside did I finally exhale.

Instinctively, I touched my side. Smooth. Whole. Untouched. Thankfully, my kidney was still inside my body.

In my previous life, Zac had been diagnosed with uremia. He could only stay alive through dialysis, and if he wanted to fully recover, he needed a kidney transplant.

The moment we got the news, I rushed to the hospital for a matching test. When the results came back compatible, my brother and sister‑in‑law practically fell to their knees begging me to donate a kidney.

They swore—over and over—that if I donated, they would take care of me for the rest of my life. They even promised that Zac would repay me when I grew old.

My mother pressured me with moral blackmail. "If you don't donate, I'll jump off the building. Let's see if you can sleep at night with two lives on your conscience!"

So I gave one of my kidneys to Zac and saved his life.

But the damage to my own body was irreversible. I became a disabled person with only one kidney. My company fired me because my weakened health made it impossible to work. A few extra steps left me gasping for breath.

The doctors said that losing one kidney meant I could never have children. I was useless in every sense of the word.

And that was when my brother and sister‑in‑law turned around and denied every promise they had made. Not only did they refuse to give me living expenses—they kicked me out, leaving me to fend for myself.

My brother, Keith Reacher, looked at me with a cold, flat expression. "You're only missing one kidney. Do you plan to rely on us forever? Don't be so greedy."

My sister‑in‑law tossed a bag of blood‑red pig kidneys at my feet. "You gave one. I'm giving you a whole pair back. That's generous enough."

Even my own mother glared at me impatiently. "Zac is your nephew. If you didn't donate to him, who would? We're a family. Why are you making such a fuss?"

I died in a rented room, alone and abandoned. Not a single person grieved for me.

My venomous family even sighed with regret. "Since she was going to die anyway, we should've had her give both kidneys to Zac."

This time, I'd make sure no one got their hands on my kidneys.