Chapter 1 #3
"Okay…" I muttered nervously, unsure of what I was actually supposed to do.
"Oh, and Ellis, one more task," Dr. Mason said. "I want you to go on a date. Get coffee or dinner. Whatever you count to be a date."
I sputtered in disbelief. "What?"
"I'm not saying marry them," she clarified. "I’m just saying, get out there and meet someone for a couple of hours. Socialize outside of your family. Okay?"
The clock hand hit the hour, and Dr. Mason smiled warmly as she rose to her feet.
"It was good to see you this week, Ellis," she said. "Our next session is in about two weeks. I really want you to spend this time doing some serious thinking about your life and where you want it to go. Okay?"
"Sure," I muttered stiffly. "Thanks."
I gathered my bag and stood, tapping my back pocket for my phone before heading toward the door. My head was spinning from all the homework she had given me, and I’d be lying if I said I was even remotely thrilled about this whole "date" business.
“Oh, Ellis?”
Dr. Mason’s voice stopped me, and I turned to look at her.
“Happy birthday.”
The house felt too warm as I packed up my tripod and set down my phone, the content filming over.
I had filmed a short update for my TikTok account, marking one year post-transplant and the celebrations.
My face ached from the forced smile stretched across it, and I opened and closed my mouth a few times to ease the tension.
I surveyed the sheer number of bodies crammed into every available space for my birthday. It wasn’t as if our home was huge. It wasn’t some mansion parked on a luxury estate, but it was big enough.
I had lived here my entire life. It had always been my safe place, a source of stability and comfort in my otherwise chaotic existence.
White brick and dark shutters framed the house, with a wide front porch that held a swinging bench—one that creaked dangerously if you pushed off too hard.
The front door, once bright red, was now a faded color.
It was drab and sad compared with its former vibrancy.
Mom had wanted to repaint it with me, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it.
Inside, polished wooden floors glowed under warm yellow lighting, while an abundance of pictures lined the walls in a carefully arranged timeline of memories.
The dining table, usually folded up small in the kitchen, had been moved into the main living room tonight, extended to accommodate the sheer amount of food spilling across it.
The scent of spiced meats, baked bread, and something sweet lingered in the air, mouthwatering and familiar. I licked my lips. It smelled nostalgic, even if I couldn’t pinpoint exactly what dish it belonged to. But the amount of food? A little concerning.
Surely, it wouldn’t all get eaten.
Glazed ham, a platter of roast beef, and buttery mashed potatoes sat beside grilled vegetables.
Trays were stacked with finger foods—mini quiches, homemade sausage rolls, tiny pies.
A massive fruit platter took up one end of the table, the edges decorated with perfectly curled orange peels.
I was floored that someone had spent time making it all look so perfect.
Every available chair was occupied. Every inch of space swallowed up and filled with people. Cousins, aunts, uncles, family friends. Some I hadn’t seen since I was a kid. Others I only ever saw at Christmas or funerals.
All of them here for one person.
Me.
For Ellis the Miracle.
For the girl who wasn’t supposed to make it, but did.
Twenty-one today, I mused.
I had thought it ironic last year, when I was being wheeled into surgery on the morning of my twentieth birthday. How interesting would it be to die on the day you were born?
Imagine if that was everyone’s destiny.
How would we spend each year, surviving a birthday? Would we make good on all our vows and promises to ourselves? Would that wish we made over those flickering candles hold more gravity?
My whole life had been about survival. It was my earliest and most tangible memory, and it had followed me into adulthood like a friend.
When my mother had handed me a cupcake—which I couldn’t eat—with an unlit candle—because of the no-open-flame rule—I had still made a wish.
I had wished to live.
I had wished to survive.
I had still wanted it so badly. And reflecting on it now, I wondered if that was because it had become more of a habit or if I was supposed to want it. If I was supposed to want another person to die so I could live.
Tragedy had manifested in the universe.
It felt wrong to have a party. Yes, it was my birthday, and I had survived the dreaded one-year mark, but I knew I needed to be grateful, to be patient. Because this hadn’t just been my journey.
My parents had watched me die for years, day by day. They had watched the life drain from my eyes, the color fade from my cheeks, my limbs shrink as my body betrayed me again and again, like some cruel horror loop we were all forced to endure.
They had lived their lives on a held breath. And when the call finally came—when someone else’s tragedy became my salvation—that breath was released.
I didn’t know whose heart beat in my chest. The family that donated it wanted no contact. I had no idea who this heart once belonged to or who they left behind.
What did their one-year anniversary look like?
Did the people who lost their person wake up this morning the way I had? With dread curling through their bodies as they faced another day in a world that no longer felt right without them?
As my eyes roved around the room, they landed on my brother near the entryway, leaning against the staircase in his army greens, a beer in hand as he talked with my parents.
My breath caught in my throat.
I hadn’t known he’d be here.
Mom had told me he was still on deployment... somewhere.
To say my relationship with my brother was fraught would be an understatement.
He was my brother, but I didn’t know him.
I wanted to… I just didn’t know how.
I was consumed with guilt over all the attention I had taken from him as we grew up. He was two years older than me, and he likely felt as if he had lost our parents from the age of seven. After my first diagnosis.
Our childhoods had been vastly different. I had spent mine battling cancer, fighting off near-death experiences, and then chasing a heart transplant. His had been spent just existing in the background, a subplot to the lives of our parents, who poured everything into me.
It hadn’t taken a genius to understand why there was a canyon between us.
I just wasn’t sure how to bridge that gap, or whether he even wanted me to.
There had been a time of closeness after my first diagnosis.
We had done everything together. He had become fiercely protective, especially after Mom explained what I was going through.
He had wanted to help, to look after me.
On days when I was too weak to leave the bed, he would stay with me, and we would watch movies or he would play Xbox beside me.
It was the second diagnosis that cracked us—or at least, in my eyes, that’s when things changed.
He started getting left behind. My parents forgot pick-up times. Hobbies fell by the wayside. Grandparents had to step in. Looking back on it now, as an adult, I could see why he had become reserved and aloof.
I could see why, the minute he turned eighteen, he signed up for the army and left.
I took a steadying breath and pushed forward, making my way toward him just as some relatives caught my parents’ attention and swept them away.
Thomas’s eyes flicked to mine, and for a second, I saw a flash of surprise in them, but it vanished just as quickly.
He never did give much away. Instead, he tilted his head slightly in acknowledgment, and I noted how much older he looked.
Sharper. He had the same green eyes as the boy I remembered, but they were harder now, the edges sharper, more guarded.
“Happy birthday,” he murmured with a dip of his head. “You’re looking good, Lis,” he said after a moment, his voice even. “Healthy.
A breathy, awkward laugh left me, and I cringed at how forced it sounded.
“The big one year,” I muttered, gesturing vaguely at the party around us. “Word on the street is that I’m a survivor.”
His eyes didn’t leave mine as I spoke, his gaze unreadable, nothing but quiet observation.
I had forgotten that about him.
I lived in a world full of people who filled silences with words. But Thomas? He let things settle. Let statements hang in the air, absorbing them—listening not to respond, but to understand.
When he finally spoke, his words hit me like a bucket of ice-cold water dumped over my head.
“What’s the problem?”
I blinked at him, trying to work out what he meant.
“You should be happy,” he continued with a small frown. “You’re alive… healthy. You made it. But…” His eyes narrowed slightly. “I don’t see it anywhere in your eyes. Happiness.”
My throat went dry. His words stripped me bare, as if a mask had been ripped away, leaving the real me on display. It was unnerving. My stomach twisted as my eyes swept the room once more.
Did anyone else not buy my act?
What if people could see right through me?
What would they think?
That I was the selfish girl who had defied death more than once yet couldn’t summon an ounce of happiness in her tired, worn-out body?
My eyes met my brother’s again, and I knew he was right. It was, by far, the most direct and honest thing anyone had said to me in years.
All the emotions I had been burying seemed to bubble on my lips, demanding release, and for the first time, I felt like I could tell him. I could tell him the truth, and he would understand. He wouldn’t judge me.