"Why?" they demanded. "She's your own sister!"
"Are you really going to stand by and watch her die?"
They called me an ungrateful wretch. Heartless. A monster.
No matter what they said, I wouldn't budge.
"Mom, donating bone marrow has side effects. Sure, I'm young, it probably won't matter now. But what about when I'm old?"
"Will you still take care of me then?"
Mom swore to the heavens without missing a beat. "As long as you donate to your sister, no matter what happens to you down the road—even if you end up paralyzed—we'll look after you for the rest of your life!"
I smiled. It didn't reach my eyes.
They made it sound so noble. All those years, every time I had a cold or a fever, had they taken care of me even once? They'd shove some expired medicine at me and tell me to drink more water.
But when Laurel so much as nicked her finger, Mom would rush her to the emergency room.
When I refused to donate, my parents bombarded me with messages every single day.
They even showed up at my office in a pack, making a scene right at the entrance. They told my company I was a heartless ingrate who wouldn't even save her own sister.