Then they took it online, sobbing about how close Laurel and I had always been, how good they'd been to me growing up. Now that my sister was sick and needed a bone marrow transplant, I'd already been typed as a match—and I was refusing.
They wept and wailed across social media, snot and tears streaming, rallying strangers to pressure me.
To blow it up even further and force my hand, Dad actually paid to get the story onto the trending topics.
It worked exactly as they'd hoped.
I was fired. Walking down the street, people pointed and whispered.
Bloggers and reporters tracked down my parents. They said they wanted to help plead my parents' case.
Mom and Dad couldn't have been more thrilled.
A whole mob marched toward my apartment.
The second I opened the door, they swarmed in—cameras and microphones shoved in my face from every direction.
"Ms. Dickerson, the patient is your biological sister. Why won't you agree to donate?"
Mom dropped to her knees right in front of me and slammed her forehead against the floor. Once. Twice. Three times.
"Lily, I'm begging you! Save your sister!"
I bent down to pull her up, but she refused to move.
"If you don't agree, I'll kneel here until I die."