**We’ll Get Through This**
When the tears run dry and the grief feels unbearable, you must force yourself to carry on—no matter what. To bring kindness and joy to those around you. Most of all, to remember you still matter to someone.
James and his wife, Emily, wept at their son’s bedside in the hospital. Thirteen-year-old Oliver had been hit by a car. Their only child—bright, kind, adored by them both.
“Doctor, please, tell us—will Ollie pull through?” Emily begged, her eyes searching the doctor’s face as he avoided her gaze.
“We’re doing everything we can,” was all he said.
James and Emily weren’t wealthy, but they’d have scrimped and borrowed any sum to save their boy. Yet no money or love could stop what was coming. Oliver, unconscious, had only hours left.
In the next ward lay Ethan, a fourteen-year-old from a care home. Life hadn’t been kind to him. He was frail, often gasping for breath, and knew his weakened heart wouldn’t last. No donor would come for a boy like him.
When the elderly doctor checked on him, he’d murmur the same empty words:
“Hold on, Ethan. We’ll find you a heart.”
But Ethan understood. He never cried.
“Time’s slipping away,” he thought, staring out the window. “Soon, I won’t see the sky, the grass, the sun. Best make peace with it.”
His care home supervisor and director visited, avoiding his eyes as they reassured him. He nodded, sparing them the truth—he already knew.
One evening, feigning sleep, he overheard the supervisor pleading with the surgeon.
“Please, save him. He’s a good lad. If there’s even a sliver of hope…”
The doctor sighed. “You know it’s not up to me.”
Ethan shut his eyes, whispering to himself: “Just let it be painless…”
His only friend, Tom, from the care home, wept beside him.
“Don’t cry, Tom,” Ethan said gently. “Maybe there’s something after this. We’ll meet again—just not yet.”
Lying there, he mourned the small joys he’d never taste again—warm rain, winter’s crisp snow underfoot.
He’d stopped believing in miracles. So when the surgeon came in, looking him square in the eye, Ethan braced himself.
“We’re prepping you for surgery. Stay strong.”
Ethan didn’t dare hope. He didn’t know the battle raging in the doctor’s office—where Oliver’s parents faced an impossible choice.
Emily sobbed, clutching her husband. “I won’t let them take my boy’s heart!”
James stood silent, torn, until the surgeon pressed gently:
“Your son can’t be saved. But his heart could give Ethan a life. Please—time’s running out.”
James met his gaze, hollow but resolute. “Do it. Let our son’s heart keep beating.”
Emily collapsed into sedated silence.
Ethan awoke groggy, blinking up at the surgeon’s relieved smile.
“You made it. Everything’s going to be alright now.”
For the first time, the man held his gaze. A flicker of hope stirred in Ethan’s chest—his new, borrowed heart.
Oliver’s parents lingered, hollow-eyed but clinging to one thought: *A piece of him lives on.*
The surgeon approached them. “The transplant was a success. Thank you.”
Emily wept anew. James could only nod.
Weeks passed. Ethan grew stronger, meeting Oliver’s parents during their daily visits. When discharged, they stunned him with an offer:
“Ethan, we’d like to adopt you—if you’ll have us.”
He hesitated, but the care home held no future. “I’d like that,” he whispered.
It hadn’t been easy for them. Emily had raged, refusing at first. But Oliver’s heart beating in Ethan’s chest wore her down. After tearful fights, she’d relented—thinking, *Maybe this boy can fill a fraction of the void.*
Ethan felt uneasy under Emily’s watchful gaze. She studied him, as if hunting for traces of Oliver in his face.
The first night in their home, James showed him Oliver’s room.
“Make yourself comfortable.”
Ethan eyed the tablet on the desk, glancing hesitantly at James, who nodded.
He’d never held one before. But as he scrolled, Emily’s sharp voice cut in:
“Did anyone teach you to ask before touching things?”
Ethan flinched, his pulse racing. “S-sorry. James said I—”
She snatched it away. James intervened, but Emily fled in tears.
“You can’t speak to him like this,” James argued later. “He’s recovering.”
“And what about *my* pain?” she shot back.
Ethan lay stiff in bed, guilt gnawing at him. *Maybe I should go back. Maybe I ruined everything.*
Months crawled by. Outwardly, peace settled. But Ethan felt the constant comparisons—*Oliver did it better, faster, smarter.* He never called them “Mum” or “Dad,” just polite “yous.” James softened the blows, urging patience.
“She needs time, son. We all do.”
Ethan tried. But one day, Emily snapped.
“I can’t do this. *You* deal with him.” She packed a bag and left.
That evening, Ethan found James slumped at the table.
“Take me back to the care home,” he pleaded. “You’ll make up without me here.”
James studied him—then pulled him close. In Ethan’s eyes, he saw the same kindness Oliver had.
“We’ll manage, lad. We’re tough. We’ll get through this.”
Alone, they fell into a quiet rhythm—cooking together, talking late into the night. But the house felt empty.
“Tomorrow’s Emily’s birthday,” James murmured one evening.
Ethan straightened, a sudden resolve flashing in his eyes. He hugged James tight.
“Dad, let’s bring Mum home.”
James choked up—whether from the word *Dad* or the offer, he couldn’t say.
The next day, they stood on Emily’s parents’ doorstep. When she answered, Ethan held out flowers.
“Mum, come home. We miss you. Happy birthday.”
Emily staggered, then crushed him to her. “Oh, my boy—forgive me. Let’s go home.”
A miracle had happened—not just the heart, but the family stitching itself back together. Ethan had been given life, love, and a second chance. And every beat of his borrowed heart was a silent thank-you to the boy who’d made it possible.
