We’ll Make It Through
When the tears run dry, when the strength to bear the pain of loss fades, you must force yourself to live. To live at all costs, to bring kindness and joy to those around you. And most of all, to know that someone still needs you.
Edward and his wife Emily wept over their son in the hospital ward, where thirteen-year-old Oliver had been brought after being hit by a car. He was their only child—a bright, gentle boy, adored by his parents.
“Doctor, please—tell us, will our Oliver make it?” Emily pleaded, searching the doctor’s eyes for hope as he avoided her gaze, making no promises.
“We’re doing everything we can,” was all he said.
Edward and Emily weren’t wealthy, but they would have found any amount of money to save their son. Yet no sum, no love, could change the truth: Oliver was dying, unconscious, with only moments left.
In the next ward lay Matthew, a boy of about fourteen. He understood everything. Life in foster care had been harsh, and now, weak and struggling to breathe, he knew his time was short. For an orphan with a failing heart, a donor was nearly impossible.
Whenever the old doctor came by, he’d avoid eye contact and say the same thing:
“It’ll be alright, Matthew. We’ll find you a heart. Just hold on.”
But Matthew knew better. He didn’t cry.
“Time’s running out,” he thought. “Might as well accept it. I’ll stare at the blue sky, the green grass, the sun—soon, I won’t see them again.”
His carers visited, offering empty reassurances, eyes downcast.
“It’ll be alright,” they’d say. He’d nod, never letting on that he understood.
One day, pretending to sleep, he overheard his carer talking to the doctor.
“Please, if there’s any chance—save him. He’s a good lad. I know a donor’s rare, but if there’s even a sliver of hope—we’ll handle the paperwork.”
“You know I can’t promise anything,” the doctor sighed.
Matthew closed his eyes. “Just don’t let it hurt when I go.”
His friend James from the home visited, crying. Matthew comforted him instead.
“Don’t cry, James. Maybe there’s life after this. We’ll meet again—just not yet.”
Lying there, Matthew thought like a man.
“My life’s hanging by a thread. Soon, I won’t feel the rain, see the sun, hear snow crunch underfoot.”
He’d stopped believing in miracles.
Then one day, the doctor met his gaze. “Get ready, Matthew. Surgery’s soon. Let’s hope for the best.”
Matthew didn’t believe it would save him. He didn’t know—in the doctor’s office, Oliver’s parents were breaking. He didn’t know the boy. Emily sobbed, screaming:
“I’ll never let anyone take my son’s heart!”
Edward stayed silent, torn. The doctor pressed:
“You know we can’t save Oliver. But you can save another child. Time’s running out.”
Finally, Edward looked up, hollow-eyed.
“Do it. Let our son’s heart live in someone else.”
Emily, too broken to speak, was sedated.
Matthew closed his eyes in surgery, unafraid. He thought only of seeing his parents again—gone years ago in a crash. No one told him about the transplant. He didn’t dare hope.
When he woke, the doctor was smiling, eyes steady.
“Welcome back. It’s going to be alright now.”
For the first time, Matthew thought—maybe it really would be.
Oliver’s parents waited, grief-stricken but hoping a piece of their boy might live on. The doctor emerged:
“It worked. Thank you. Oliver’s heart beats in Matthew now.”
Emily wept anew; Edward could only nod.
Time passed. Matthew grew stronger, meeting Oliver’s parents, who visited daily. When he left the hospital, they stunned him:
“We’d like to adopt you, if you’ll have us.”
He hesitated—but going back to the home was unthinkable.
“I’d like that,” he murmured.
He didn’t know how hard it had been for them. Emily had resisted fiercely—until she remembered whose heart Matthew carried. After fighting, they’d held each other, crying. Maybe he could fill some of the void.
Matthew felt awkward around them, guilty for living. He saw Emily searching his face for traces of Oliver, tears in her eyes.
When they brought him home, Edward showed him Oliver’s room.
“This is yours now.”
Matthew picked up a tablet, glancing for permission. Edward nodded, then left.
Emily’s voice cut in:
“Didn’t anyone teach you to ask before touching things?”
Startled, Matthew clutched his chest. “Sorry—he said I could—”
Edward stepped in, but Emily snatched the tablet, fleeing in tears.
“You can’t shout at him—not after surgery!”
“And what about me?” she sobbed.
Matthew wished he’d never come.
Days passed. Calm settled, but Emily kept comparing him to Oliver—his grades, his talents, his flaws. Matthew bit his tongue, calling them only “sir” and “ma’am.” Edward soothed her:
“Give her time, son.”
Then one day, she snapped.
“I can’t do this. You deal with him.” She packed a bag and left.
That evening, Matthew found Edward brooding.
“Take me back to the home tomorrow. I’m causing trouble.”
Edward looked at him—really looked—and saw the same kindness Oliver had. He hugged him hard.
“We’ll manage. We’re strong. We’ll make it through.”
Just the two of them, life was simpler. They cooked together, talked at night. But both missed Emily.
Then Edward murmured, “Tomorrow’s her birthday.”
Something shifted in Matthew. He hugged Edward tight.
“Dad, let’s bring Mum home tomorrow.”
Edward wept—for the word “Dad,” or the hope, he didn’t know.
The next day, they stood at Emily’s parents’ door. She opened it, stunned.
“Mum, come home. We miss you,” Matthew said, handing her flowers. “Happy birthday. We made dinner.”
Emily froze—then burst into tears, crushing him in her arms.
“Of course, love. Let’s go home. Forgive me.”
A miracle had happened. Matthew had been given life, a family, love. And though he’d never forget the boy who made it possible, he was alive—laughing, living, grateful.
