"She performed Max Dickerson's surgery herself. She is personally monitoring every single one of his post-op labs." My voice trembled. "You tell me, Uncle Richard—who is her real child?"
Silence. Just his heavy breathing on the other end.
Finally, he sighed. "Don't say that, Sam. In your mom's heart, you are—"
"Where?" I cut him off. "Where is my place in her heart? Which page of the transplant list am I on? Which bed number do I occupy during her daily rounds?"
My knuckles went white around the phone. "I am her daughter, yet I don't even qualify for fair medical treatment. If being someone else's kid means getting backdoor access to life-saving organs, then I'd rather cut ties with this family completely."
A shuffle on the line. The breathing pattern changed.
Mom. She'd been listening the whole time.
"Samantha." Sharp. Professional. "Can't you look at the bigger picture? That Dickerson boy... he couldn't wait any longer."
"And what about me?" I laughed—hollow, broken. "How much longer can I wait? One year? Two? Five?"
"You need to understand—"
"You know the statistics better than anyone," I snapped. "Average wait time for a heart is 3.8 years. I've been waiting for twelve."