On the night of December 8, 1992, when he was standing in a parking lot talking to friends, Tracy March jumped to the top of a car, as he had done a hundred times before. This time, though, Tracy lost his balance. His head struck the ground, hard.

All night, Cory, Tracy’s mother, stood next to her son, who was lying in a hospital bed, his brown eyes fixed in a lifeless stare. She remembered that Tracy had once mentioned organ donation. Maybe I can spare another family this pain, she thought. When the time came, she and her husband Bill signed the forms permitting his organs to be donated.

Tracy was declared dead the next day. Twenty-four hours later, in a Boston hospital, Tracy’s liver was made part of my husband, David, who was suffering from a hopeless liver disease.

Months later, we learned from the local organ bank that the donor’s parents wished desperately to meet someone who had gained life through the gift from their son. A meeting was arranged by the organ bank to bring together two families linked by the most bittersweet ties imaginable.

The meeting was risky, but worth it. We talked for 3 hours. They showed us a picture of Tracy. We learned how he had lived and died. We learned something about Bill and Cory too.

For the Marches, seeing David and knowing he was well seemed to ease their suffering. I’ll never forget seeing David’s tall figure stopped over Cory, her arms around his waist, as a mother would hug a son. For a long time they held each other tight. It was hard to know if she was saying hello or good-bye. Maybe she was saying both.