Part 1You Took My Kidney for Your First Love. Why Mourn Me Now?

To help my husband, Julian Parker, pay off the debt from his stock-market losses, I agreed to sell one of my kidneys.

But on the day of the surgery, our six-year-old daughter, Ella Parker, ran to the clinic all by herself and frantically called Julian for help.

Julian sounded conflicted.

"Mom's only having one kidney removed. It'll get Dad out of this mess for good. But if she doesn't do it, Dad's whole future is ruined."

Ella kept begging him to stop the surgery, but Julian simply hung up.

Then he hurried toward a private hospital suite nearby, his face filled with worry.

Inside lay Claire Morgan, the woman he'd never gotten over. Her face was deathly pale.

"Don't worry. We've got a kidney for you. You're going to be fine."

He lowered his voice.

"And don't feel guilty. I'm the one who chose to lie to her. She's still young. She can live just fine with one kidney."

Claire's transplant was a success.

Julian was in such a good mood afterward that, for once, he even suggested taking Ella and me on a trip, calling it a belated honeymoon.

But he had no idea I was already dead.

After my kidney was removed, I couldn't even afford $9.90 for the antibiotics I needed.

The wound became infected, and I died.

And Ella finally gave up on her father, too.

* * *

When I opened my eyes again, my whole body felt strangely light. Every trace of pain was gone.

For a moment, I thought I'd made it through the surgery.

Then I heard Ella's young voice, choked with sobs.

"Mom, what's wrong? Wake up, Mom."

I turned toward the sound.

My six-year-old daughter was kneeling beside the clinic bed, sobbing so hard she could barely breathe.

On the bed in front of her lay my body, pale and completely still.

That was when it hit me.

Oh. I hadn't made it.

I was dead.

It made sense, really. We were broke, so I'd had the surgery at a small private clinic.

Afterward, I hadn't been given antibiotics or even painkillers.

Once the anesthesia wore off, the pain became unbearable. I could feel myself slipping away.

Still, I accepted my death surprisingly quickly. I wasn't even that upset.

Our family was drowning in debt and desperate for money. If my death could give Julian and Ella a secure future, maybe it was worth it.

Just as I had that thought, a man in a white coat walked in.

He tossed a debit card at Ella's feet. "Stop crying. You're giving me a headache."

His voice was full of impatience.

"There's $700,000 in the account. That's $200,000 more than we agreed on. Take the card, take your mom's body, and get out."

Then he turned toward a container filled with preservation fluid. Inside was the kidney that had just been removed from me.

Ella's eyes reddened. She rushed over. "That's my mom's! You can't take it!"

She tried to grab the container, but the man kicked her away. She hit the wall hard, her face going pale with pain.

My heart clenched.

Ella had always been timid and quick to tears. I thought that would finally make her give up.

But it didn't.

Still sobbing, she rushed at him again.

The man snapped his fingers. Three men came in from the hallway and restrained her, holding her down no matter how hard she struggled.

"What do you mean, your mom's?" the man snapped. "We paid for it. Don't start trouble, kid. Take the money and go."

He picked up the container.

"The buyer paid a fortune for this kidney. If anything happens to it, you won't get paid, and your mom will have died for nothing."

Pinned to the floor, Ella burst into helpless sobs.

"I don't want the money! I want my mom! I'll give the money back! Just give me my mom back..."

No one listened.

The man hurried away with the kidney.