He Gave My Mother’s Corneas to His Mistress

The steady beep of monitors pulled me from the depths of unconsciousness. My eyelids felt heavy, useless as always, but now weighed down further by grief and exhaustion. I lay still, trying to orient myself in the darkness that had been my constant companion since birth. The antiseptic smell confirmed I was in a hospital—Northwestern Memorial, if I remembered correctly. They had brought me here after I collapsed at Mom's funeral.

Mom. The thought of her sent a fresh wave of pain through my chest. Just three days ago, she had been alive, her voice warm and steady as she promised me that even in death, she would give me the greatest gift—her corneas, my chance to finally see the world.

'She's still sedated,' a male voice said somewhere to my left. Dr. Sanders, I recognized. Jonathan's friend and my ophthalmologist for the past five years.

'Good.' My husband's voice was clipped, authoritative. 'She doesn't need to know yet. The grief is already too much.'

Know what? I remained perfectly still, my breathing measured. Years of blindness had taught me to gather information through stillness, through listening.

'I still don't understand why you made this decision, Jonathan,' Dr. Sanders said, his voice lowered. 'The compatibility was perfect. Her mother's corneas could have given Isabella sight.'

My heart stuttered. Could have?

'Victoria's vision was deteriorating,' Jonathan replied dismissively. 'And Isabella has been blind her whole life. She doesn't know what she's missing.'

The words hit me like physical blows. Victoria? My best friend Victoria?

'But to give her mother's corneas to Victoria instead...' Dr. Sanders sounded uncomfortable. 'It wasn't your decision to make.'

'I have medical power of attorney,' Jonathan said coldly. 'And I made the call. Victoria needed them more.'

My mind reeled, trying to process what I was hearing. The corneas that were meant for me—my mother's final gift—had been given to Victoria? My best friend who already had sight?

'What will you tell Isabella?' Dr. Sanders asked.

'That they weren't viable,' Jonathan replied without hesitation. 'That they were damaged during extraction. She'll never know the difference.'

The casual cruelty in his voice—a voice I had loved and trusted for seven years—made me feel physically ill. I fought to keep my breathing steady, to not betray that I was awake and hearing every word of their betrayal.

'I need to check on another patient,' Dr. Sanders said, his voice tight with what sounded like disapproval. 'She should wake up soon.'

Footsteps retreated, and I heard the door close. I sensed Jonathan moving closer to my bed, felt his presence looming over me. His cologne—the expensive sandalwood one I had given him for his birthday—filled my nostrils. How many times had I breathed it in, finding comfort in its familiarity? Now it made me want to gag.

I couldn't pretend anymore. I opened my eyes—useless as the gesture was—and turned my face toward where I knew he stood.

'Isabella?' His voice immediately shifted to the gentle tone he always used