For four years, my family never came to my dialysis treatments. The endless hours hooked to machines were lonely and exhausting—but Marcus, a 58-year-old widowed veteran, never missed a single session. He drove me there three times a week, sat with me, brought coffee and books, played gin rummy, and became the family I didn’t have.
He told me only recently why he had been there all this time: years ago, he’d caused a car accident that left my wife, Jennifer, on dialysis until her death. Consumed by guilt, he’d quietly committed himself to supporting me—and eventually became my living donor.
Marcus gave me a kidney, saving my life. Today, six months later, I’m free from the machine. My daughter has returned, and Marcus and I still meet for coffee and cards, honoring Jennifer together.
He wasn’t just paying a debt—he became my family. He taught me that true love and loyalty are shown not by blood, but by showing up when it matters most.