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."
