Then came last Tuesday.

I was sitting at my kitchen table, sipping a cup of decaf coffee and going over some monthly bills, when the doorbell rang. It was 2:00 PM. My son was still at school. I wasn’t expecting any packages.

I opened the door and stared.

If I hadn’t known the exact slope of his nose and the set of his jaw, I might not have recognized him. He looked terrible. He was gaunt, his skin had an unhealthy, grayish-yellow tint, and his clothes hung off his frame like they were tailored for someone twice his size. But the eyes were the same. Those shifty, self-serving eyes.

“Hi,” he said, his voice raspy and thin.

I didn’t open the screen door. I just stood there, arms crossed, feeling an absolute, glacial calm wash over me. “What do you want?”

“I know it’s been a long time,” he started, shifting his weight nervously. “And I know I have a lot of explaining to do. But I’m really sick. End-stage renal failure. Both my kidneys are shot. I’ve been on dialysis for almost two years, and it’s killing me. I’m at the bottom of the donor list, and my doctors say if I don’t get a living donor soon…” He trailed off, looking at me with big, pathetic, puppy-dog eyes.

I stared at him. The silence stretched between us, thick and heavy. I was trying to process what was happening. Was he here to apologize before he died? Was he here to finally try and meet the son he abandoned, fearing his own mortality?

Nope.

“I remember from when you were pregnant,” he continued, emboldened by my silence. “We have the same blood type. O-negative. Universal donors, but we can only take O-negative. It’s really hard to find a match.”

He took a deep breath, puffed out his sunken chest, and boldly, unbelievably, dropped the hammer.

“I need you to get tested to see if you’re a tissue match. I need a massive kidney donation. You’re my best shot at surviving this.”

I actually looked around my porch to see if someone was filming. I looked at the bushes. I looked at the sky.