"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."
Her tone stayed infuriatingly calm—the voice she used to deliver terminal diagnoses. "Medical resources are scarce. We must prioritize patients based on urgency and survival probability."
"I know." I nodded to the empty room. "You're the Department Director. Dad's in management. Your ethics, your resources—you give them to whoever you choose."
My chest ached. "But my life is mine. And from now on, so are my choices."
I ended the call. Powered down the phone.
The transplant opportunity was gone. Stolen. All I could do was wait.
But disease doesn't understand patience. My heart failure was accelerating. Breathless spells becoming frequent. Fatigue settling bone-deep.
My cardiologist suggested a Left Ventricular Assist Device—an LVAD—to keep blood pumping while I waited. A mechanical bridge to transplant.
The cost was astronomical. Even after insurance, out-of-pocket exceeded a hundred thousand dollars.
I'd planned to ask my parents for a loan. But if they'd burn their connections to save a stranger instead of me, they certainly wouldn't pay for a machine to keep their own daughter alive.
I had to survive on my own.
The university counselor, terrified I might drop dead in the dorms and cause a liability issue, gently suggested another leave of absence.
I didn't argue. Just packed my bags and moved out.
Funds were tight. I found a shared apartment in the Urban Village—a chaotic, run-down district where rent was cheap and the desperate gathered.
One of my roommates, a young guy hustling to make rent, took pity on me. Introduced me to livestream e-commerce.
I threw myself into the work. Streamed for hours, selling cheap goods, desperate to earn enough to buy myself more time.
My parents found me a month later. They'd stumbled across my livestream while scrolling social media.
They cornered me in the narrow, trash-strewn alley outside my rental.
Mom looked around at the peeling paint and overflowing dumpsters, eyes welling. "How... how can you live in a place like this?"
She reached for me. "Your health is critical. Pack your things. You're coming back to the hospital with us."
I stepped back. My phone buzzed—livestream starting in five minutes. I tried to step around them.
Dad grabbed my arm, grip bruising. His face twisted in disgust.
"We raised you better than this," he hissed. "Is this why we educated you? So you could do this kind of lowly, degrading work?"
He gestured at the slums. "You might not have any shame, but we do! If my colleagues find out my daughter is a street hawker, how are we supposed to hold our heads up?"
There it was. They didn't care about my heart. They cared about their reputation.
I yanked free. "I make money with my own two hands. What's there to be ashamed of?"
I straightened my spine, staring him down. "There's no distinction between high and low work. Or do you think wearing a white coat makes you a superior species?"
I stepped toward him, forcing him back. "Actually, you're right. Doctors are supposed to have benevolent hearts. You're so noble you can sacrifice your own biological daughter to save a stranger. Truly saintly."
Mom grabbed my hand, panic rising. "Sam, please! We came to take you to treatment. Stop fighting us. I've already found a potential donor match—"
"Is that necessary?" Ice coated my voice. "If I take it, won't I just become another person using connections to cut the line?"
"Samantha—"
"Save it." I turned my back on them. "I don't want your charity."
