The Daughter She Threw Away

"This isn't about money, ma'am. Please, go back and wait for the notification."

Mom walked out of the office, shoulders slumped, wiping tears that wouldn't stop.

I didn't hesitate. I rushed past her and grabbed the doctor's coat.

"Doctor, can I donate?"

He stopped, frowning down at me. "Where did this kid come from? Where are your parents?"

I looked toward the hospital entrance. The weeping figure had already vanished.

Trembling, I handed him my cancer report. "The doctor said if I can't pay for treatment, I'll die anyway. I can donate."

He studied the paper, expression shifting. "Where are your parents?"

I swallowed hard. Then lied.

"I'm an orphan."

When it came time to sign the consent forms, I realized I didn't even know how to write my own name. The nurse guided my hand, teaching me stroke by stroke.

By the time I ran out, Mom was already at the curb, Alex in her arms, about to step into a taxi.

I sprinted up to them. She looked startled.

"If Alex gets better," I panted, looking up at her, "he won't have to miss school anymore. Does that mean... I can see you again?"

She pulled Alex tighter against her chest. At the mention of his condition, a bitter smile touched her lips.

"Maybe."

"He'll get better," I said, voice shaking but firm. "I know he will."

She nodded, gaze distant. "Thank you."

The door shut. The taxi pulled away, taking them farther and farther from me.

Even that cold, distant exchange couldn't kill the pathetic hope I still held for my mother.

By the time I got home, my stomach was churning. I squatted in the corner and retched, acid burning my throat.

When I returned to the table, the scrambled eggs that had been at my spot were gone. Moved to Danny's place.

"Feeding her is a waste," my father muttered. "She'd just ruin good food."

I didn't argue. Didn't go back to the table.

"I'm full," I whispered. "I'm going to my room."

"Where do you think you're going?"

His voice stopped me cold.

Something came hurtling toward me.

I threw my arm up, bracing for the blow.

But it landed light. A box of medicine.

"Aren't you complaining about stomach pain?" he grunted, not looking at me. "Didn't have time this morning. Took the long way back from the site to get it. They said it works."

I picked up the box from the dusty floor, throat tight.

"Thank you."

That night, I woke to waves of agony.

I scrambled up in the dark, found the box, shoved a pill into my mouth. It stuck in my dry throat. I swallowed hard, again and again, until it finally went down.

Big hospitals weren't magic after all. The medicine didn't work like they claimed.

It wasn't until dawn that the pain eased enough for me to breathe. The sheets were soaked through with cold sweat.

A few days later, the doctor contacted me.

My first time on an operating table. Sterile air filled my lungs.

I was there to give up my cornea.

To give it to Alex.

When I came down, I didn't feel anything unusual.

The throbbing in my eye wasn't even a third of the agony constantly gnawing at my stomach. Aside from the darkness on my left side, nothing seemed different.

In the recovery ward, the nurse insisted I stay for observation.

I glanced at the clock and panicked. Scrambled out of bed.

I had to get back and cook. If Dad came home to an empty table, he'd kill me.

In the corridor, I heard Mom's voice from the other end.

"Great! Oh, this is great! My Alex is finally going to see!"

"Thank you, doctor! Thank you so much!"

"I heard the donor is just a child? Can I meet her? I want to thank my benefactor in person!"