He Sold His Kidney For His First Love Chapter 2

Isabelle let out a soft sob, making a show of trying to push herself up, her body seemingly too weak to manage it.

The worry in Ethan’s eyes was a physical thing, a wave of raw emotion he desperately tried to suppress the moment he saw me watching him. He schooled his features into a mask of neutrality, but it was too late. The shift was a needle to my heart.

I kept my own voice even, a deliberate act of calm. “What are you waiting for? Go help her.”

Isabelle looked up at him, her eyes glistening with manufactured tears. “Ethan, don’t be mad at Nora. It’s not her fault. I’m fine.”

The implication hung in the air, a poisonous suggestion that I had pushed her. I offered a small, dismissive smile.

Ethan was frozen, torn. He, who always listened to me, hesitated, his eyes screaming that he wanted to rush to her side but was terrified of my reaction. He was trying to spare my feelings, but he didn't realize his eyes had already betrayed him.

“I’m just going to use the restroom,” I said, my voice level. I was offering them a moment of privacy, an act of grace I wasn’t sure they deserved.

When I returned, Isabelle was gone. The fruit basket and the yogurt were gone with her.

Ethan rushed to explain, his words tumbling out. “I didn’t ask her to come. She just wanted to help, to explain. She doesn’t want us to divorce either.”

I managed a faint smile. How could a man so brilliant be so blind to her intentions?

“Honestly, Ethan, I think she loves you more than I do. You two are a better—”

“I bought that salmon you like,” he interrupted, holding up a grocery bag. “I’ll start dinner. You go watch some TV.”

He fled to the kitchen before I could finish my thought. A better fit.

For ten years, he had taken care of me so completely that I still didn't know how to cook a proper meal. I used to think that kind of care was love. Now, whether it was love or not didn't seem to matter anymore. From the perspective of family, of someone who genuinely cared for him, I was willing to step aside and give him what he truly wanted.

Our son, Sam, came home from school, and we ate dinner together, the conversation flowing as it always did. The first piece of fish Ethan picked up with his chopsticks, he placed in my bowl—a habit so ingrained that Sam had picked it up, too, often adding his own contributions to my plate.

“Mom,” Sam said suddenly, “can we go to Grandma’s this weekend?”

The thought of facing Ethan’s mother while we were navigating a divorce was too much. “Maybe in a little while, honey.”

Sam’s face fell, his lower lip pushing out in a pout.

Ethan saw the flicker of annoyance in my eyes and immediately turned on our son. “Hey, you listen to your mother. In this house, Mom is the boss. I listen to her, and you listen to her. Don’t you dare make her upset, you hear me?”

Sam, used to this dynamic, just rolled his eyes. “Dad, you’re so whipped. You’re always sucking up to Mom.”

It was true. Ethan had always, without fail, put me first. He shot a nervous glance my way now, as if seeking my approval.

Later that night, in bed, he wrapped his arms around me from behind, burying his face in the curve of my neck. His voice was a heavy murmur against my skin.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have lost focus. I’ll fix it. I promise.”

How could he fix it? A part of his body was already gone.

I said nothing, my heart aching with a dull, persistent pain.

Just after midnight, her call came. Inevitable. Ethan, thinking I was asleep, tiptoed out of the room, phone in hand, and shut himself in the bathroom.

Two minutes later, I heard the faint click of the front door closing.

He said he would change, but the ghost of his past had beckoned, and he had followed.