Chapter 200 Two Hundred

Chapter 200 Two Hundred
RYAN POV

I handed her the letter without saying anything.

She read it slowly.

When she finished, she looked at me. I could see the anger in her face

“That man has lost it, after all he did to you, how dare he?” she said, squeezing the letter hard. "What are you going to do?" she asked.

"I don't know," I said. "What do you think I should do?"

"I think," she said, staring into my eyes, "that you need to make this decision for yourself. Not for him. Not for the idea of it is stupid though, on family is but for you.”

"He's dying," I said.

"I know," she said. "And that's sad. But that doesn't mean you have to sacrifice your body for him."

"He's my father," I said.

"He is," she said. "And he's also the man who hurt you. The man who knew you were addicted and did nothing. The man who covered up a murder for money. Those things don't just disappear because he's sick. He gave life to you, but he wasn’t a father to you, my love"

I sat on the couch and just held the letter.

"He says he's changed," I said.

"People say a lot of things," Emma said, putting her hands on my thigh. "Especially when they're desperate. Especially when they're dying. But changing isn't just words. Its actions. And his actions, his entire life, have been selfish."

"What if he dies without me?" I asked.

"Then he dies," Emma said, and her voice was gentle. "And that's sad. But it's not your responsibility to save him. You can't save someone who demands it with entitlement. You can only save yourself."

I knew she was right.

But it was still hard.

That night, I called my mom.

"I got a letter from your father," I said.

"I know," she said. "What did he want now?”

"He wants a kidney," I said.

There was a long pause.

"That's between you and him," she said finally. I can’t believe that man.” Mom said

"He says he's changed. He says he's sorry. He says family needs to forgive each other."

"Do you believe him?" my mom asked. “After all he did to you? To us?”

"I don't know," I said. "Maybe. But even if he has changed, that doesn't mean I owe him my kidney."

"No," my mom agreed. "It doesn't."

"What would you do?" I asked.

"I don't know, honey," she said. "But I know that whatever you decide, it has to be what's right for you. Not what makes you feel guilty. Not what makes you feel like a good son. What's actually right for you."

I wrote back to my father.

It took me three days to figure out what to say.

"Dear Dad," I started. "Thank you for your letter. I appreciate you reaching out. I appreciate your apology. But I can't give you my kidney."

"You say you made me who I am. But that's not true. You made me broken. You made me angry. You made me someone I didn't want to be. I made myself who I am now. My wife made me who I am. My daughter is making me who I am. You don't get credit for that."

"I forgive you. I'm working on it. But forgiveness doesn't mean I owe you my body. Forgiveness doesn't mean I have to sacrifice myself for you. Forgiveness just means I'm not going to let what you did destroy me anymore."

"I hope you get a kidney transplant. I hope you get better. But it won't be from me. And I need you to understand that my answer is final. This isn't something you can manipulate me into changing. I'm not the person you raised. I'm stronger than that now."

I mailed the letter on a Tuesday.

Emma read it before I sent it.

"This is good," she said. "This is honest."

"Will he understand?" I asked.

"Probably not," she said. "But that's not your problem anymore."

My father never responded to my letter.

He died nine months later.

I found out through my mom. She called me crying. He'd been on the transplant list but never got a match.

His kidneys failed completely, and his body just gave up.

I felt sad. I felt relief. I felt guilty for feeling relieved.

But I didn't regret my decision.

That night, I held Emma while she slept.

I looked at Grace in her bassinet.

And I thought about what kind of father I wanted to be. Not the kind who manipulated his children into sacrificing themselves.

Not the kind who used guilt as a weapon.

Not the kind who acted like providing money and shelter meant his children owed him their bodies.

I wanted to be the kind of father who loved his daughter for who she was.

Who supported her dreams even when it was hard. Who let her make her own choices Who loved her even when she disappointed him.

Who never, ever made her feel like she owed him her body or her life.

My father had given me genetics and a roof.

But Emma had given me love. Grace had given me purpose. And I had given myself the strength to be better.

That was my legacy. Not what my father had made me.

But what I'd made myself.

And nothing, not even family obligation, was