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Dr. Ferguson continued, “Paris has chronic kidney disease. One kidney has almost completely shut down, and the other is functioning at thirty percent. We need to put her on the transplant list immediately.”

Panicked, I shook my head and found my voice, pleading, “Are there no other options?”

“Can she manage with just one kidney?” Richard inquired.

“Normally, that might work,” the doctor explained sympathetically, “but because her remaining kidney is compromised, it won’t, in this case. She needs a transplant.”

Richard’s tone became resolute as he asked, “How much time do we have?”

“It’s hard to say. We can control her symptoms with medication and dialysis for a while, but the sooner we find a match, the better,” the doctor replied.

A surge of desperation took over me as I pulled myself away from Richard’s embrace, regaining my determination despite my shaky voice. “I’m her mother—take my kidney. I’d gladly donate it.”

The doctor shook his head. “Vivian, your blood is A positive which immediately rules you out because of Rh incompatibility. If we put your kidney into her body it would reject it. You cannot donate to her. However, Richard, you’re AB negative, a perfect match. You’re the strongest candidate for donation. We could test for compatibility and?—”

“No,” I interrupted firmly. “H-he’s already done so much. I can’t ask that of him.”

Richard regarded me, perplexed. “What are you talking about? This is your daughter’s life. If I’m a match and can help, I’d gladly give a kidney.”

Shocked at his willingness, I quickly turned to the doctor. “What about her father? I’ll call him in France and see if he can be tested for a match.”

“Vivian, don’t call him.” Richard’s eyes implored me.

“He’s her father. I can’t just leave him out of this.”

Clutching my phone as I left the room, I overheard him ask the doctor, “What does it take to be tested?”

The doctor explained methodically, “The process involves blood tests, genetic compatibility, and immune system screening. We look at six key HLA markers—ideally, a donor and child should share at least three or four. The closer the HLA match, the lower the risk of rejection…”

His words swirled in my mind, much like an intricate recipe. I had mastered makingChouquette Saint HonoréCake during my culinary training, a complex process requiring time, precision, and a blend of choux pastry, caramelized sugar, and Chantilly cream. But the doctor’s medical jargon left me utterly confused.

How could Paris be so ill? I berated myself for missing any signs of this; that guilt would haunt me for years, especially if my dear little Paris didn’t pull through.

“Don’t think like that,” I muttered under my breath as I paced the hall, my hands trembling as I dialed Adrien in France.

When he answered, I launched straight into the matter—no time for pleasantries.

“Paris is sick. She needs a kidney transplant. Please, can you arrange for tests with your doctor to determine if you're a kidney match?”

“What do you mean?” he grumbled. I took a deep breath, explaining slowly; although he understood English very well, his tone was dismissive. By the end of my explanation, his French accent thickened with irritation. “It’s not enough I send you money? Now you want a piece ofmon corps,my kidney?”

Frustration surged through me, and I snapped, “You only send money when it’s convenient for you. Your daughter’s kidneys are failing and you could save her life. We need to know if you’re compatible. What’s your blood type?”

Dismissively, he said, “Je ne sais pas. O positif?I don’t know.”

I pressed further, rubbing a hand across my forehead. Dealing with him was like having my personal migraine—total hell. “How soon can you have tests done?”

With a bitter reply, he cut off the conversation. “Look, I’m busy. This is the last thing I needed to deal with right now.” He hung up.

“What?” If I could reach through the phone and strangle him, I would—for all the times he’d let us down. I tried calling and texting again, but, as always, we were never convenient for him.

Unfortunately, this wasn’t new. Ever since we’d moved back to the States, it felt as though Paris and I no longer existed to him. Perhaps I should have stayed in France so Paris could have some connection with him, but I had to get as far from his clutches as possible.

Downhearted by the weight of it all, my shoulders fell, and I returned to the room. There, I found the doctor and Richard wrapping up their conversation in the doorway while Paris seemed to have dozed off.

“Doctor, I contacted Paris’ father in France. He’s willing to be tested, but it might take some time,” I informed them.

He nodded. “Every potential donor increases the chances of finding a match.”