But looking at my mother wiping her tears and my father sitting there in stony silence, I couldn't hold my ground.
I just gave a small nod.
"Okay."
When the doctor saw I'd come in for bone marrow typing, he was thrilled. He'd been urging me to come in sooner, saying the earlier the procedure, the higher the success rate.
After the test, my parents were on edge. So was I.
I knew this was my one and only chance.
The expedited results came back. A match.
My parents turned the report over and over in their hands, reading it again and again, then threw their arms around each other and sobbed with joy.
I was shaking too.
I knew I was saved.
But I couldn't agree to donate right away.
If I said yes too quickly, my parents would figure out the truth: the one who was really sick was me.
Not only would I never see a dime, I'd probably be thrown out of the house for lying.
I needed to build momentum. I needed to put my parents over a fire so hot they'd have no choice but to agree to let my sister donate her bone marrow to me.
No choice but to spend the money to get me treated.
So when they asked me when I was free to go to the hospital for the transplant, I refused. Stone-faced.
They froze.