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.
"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.
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."
My chest ached. I looked at her and said, "Mom, if I were the one who was sick, would you beg Laurel to donate for me the same way?"
She didn't even think about it. "Of course!"
"You both came from my body! I've always treated you equally—never any different! If either of you got sick, I'd fight to save you with my last breath!"
Dad nodded furiously beside her. "We've never played favorites. Not once. You're both the same to us!"
The reporters exchanged glances, admiration softening their faces. After all, biased parents were a dime a dozen. Parents who truly treated their children the same? That was rare.
And with those words, my parents sealed the narrative. I was the villain.
I rose slowly to my feet. Reached into my bag. Pulled out a medical report.
My voice was calm.
"Mom. Actually, the one who's sick... is me."
