"Thank God the heart was a match for yours. Otherwise you'd both be dead, and if I lost you two, I wouldn't know how to go on." Then came the ragged breathing of my husband, Guy James.
The color drained from my face. I stood frozen, staring at the speaker on the nightstand, my legs nearly giving out beneath me.
I scraped together every last shred of composure I had and rushed back to the funeral. I was ready to confront them.
But the moment I arrived, Mabel walked in carrying a small bouquet of white chrysanthemums and a paper bag.
"Amber, I brought you a gift. I hope you won't be too sad."
The first item was Guy James's vasectomy certificate.
The second was a prenatal checkup report. Mabel Fox, three months pregnant.
"As for the third," she leaned in close, her lips brushing my ear, "it's the consent form for your daughter's heart transplant. Don't you remember? The contract you signed that night when you were drunk?"
My hands shook violently. I swayed on my feet and raised my hand to slap her across the face.
But before I could, my mother collapsed beside me with a heavy thud. I abandoned everything else and called an ambulance.