Part 2

I turned toward my mother.

All I wanted was for her to reach for my hand.

I wanted her to reassure me that we would face this together.

I wanted my father to wrap an arm around me, the way he used to whenever thunderstorms frightened me as a small child.

But Richard had something else on his mind.

“How much is all of this going to cost?”

Dr. Grant hesitated briefly.

“The total depends on her specific treatment and a number of other considerations. Our financial counselors can help you understand your insurance, available assistance, and any costs your family might be responsible for.”

Richard settled farther back into his chair.

“And how long will it take?”

“Treatment could continue for several years.”

My father slowly exhaled.

“Several years.”

Linda lowered her gaze toward her handbag.

Neither of them even glanced at me.

Dr. Grant continued explaining our options.

He described financial support programs and other assistance available to families dealing with serious childhood illnesses.

Richard cut him off.

“So we’re supposed to risk everything we’ve spent our lives building just because Hannah got sick?”

An awful silence settled over the room.

I stared at my father.

Part of me expected him to laugh.

I waited for him to clarify that his words had come out wrong.

That he hadn’t meant what he seemed to be saying.

But no explanation followed.

For years, my parents had been accumulating money for Allison’s college education.

One hundred and eighty thousand dollars.

I knew the exact amount because it was discussed so frequently at home.

It came up during dinners.

During conversations about universities.

Whenever Allison earned another outstanding grade or brought home another award.

My sister was sixteen at the time.

She was attractive, bright, socially successful, and determined to gain admission to an elite university.

Her bedroom walls were covered with academic honors.

Our parents already spoke excitedly about the internships she would pursue, the prestigious employers who would want to hire her, and the extraordinary career they were convinced she would enjoy.

To them, Allison’s future was a valuable investment that needed protection.

My own future had never seemed important enough for them to consider.

“We are not going to destroy Allison’s future because of this,” Richard declared.

Dr. Grant sat straighter.

“Mr. Barrett, this conversation concerns the medical care of your younger daughter.”

“I know perfectly well what we’re discussing.”

“Then you also need to recognize that Hannah has a genuine chance to survive and recover.”

Richard shifted his attention directly to me.

He didn’t look furious.

Perhaps anger would have been easier for me to comprehend.

Instead, his expression was almost businesslike.

As though he were considering whether an investment was worth making.

“Allison has potential,” he told me. “She’s going places. You’ve always been average, Hannah.”

Everything inside me seemed to stop moving.

Average wasn’t a new word in our family.

I had heard it when Allison won the science fair while I brought home an ordinary report card.

I heard it when she earned a position on the debate team and I failed to make the volleyball team.

I heard it when she received an invitation to a summer leadership program while I spent my summer sitting at the kitchen table doing puzzles.

Average was a word that had followed me for years.

But I had never understood just how much importance my father attached to it.

“We’re not sacrificing a future with real promise for an average one,” he continued.

My mother gave a slight nod.

Somehow, that tiny gesture hurt even more than his words.

I looked directly at her.

“But I’m your daughter too,” I whispered.

Linda shut her eyes.

“Hannah, please don’t make this any more difficult.”

I had no answer.

What could a thirteen-year-old possibly say in that moment?

Should I promise to work harder?

Should I tell them I would improve my grades?

Should I swear that I would become successful and important someday, if only they would let me live long enough to try?

I was just thirteen.

I was terrified of what was happening to my body.

And now I felt as though I had to demonstrate that my life was valuable enough to deserve saving.

Dr. Grant rose from his chair.

He remained controlled, but his voice had taken on a different edge.

“Mr. and Mrs. Barrett, I need you both to step outside.”

Richard’s brow furrowed.

“We’re her parents.”

“Then I strongly suggest you remember what being parents requires.”

My father sprang to his feet, scraping his chair harshly against the floor.

Linda picked up her handbag.

For the briefest instant, she looked in my direction.

Without thinking, I reached one hand toward her.

She turned her face away.

Neither of them came to embrace me.

Neither offered any reassurance that they would return.

They simply walked out.

When the door shut, the hospital room suddenly seemed impossibly large.

Dr. Grant stayed.

He contacted a hospital social worker.

He explained that people would help coordinate my medical treatment and ensure I didn’t have to endure my illness without support.

I nodded because I couldn’t think of anything else to do.

But very little of what he said registered.

My eyes remained fixed on the door.

I waited.

Even after everything that had happened, a part of me still believed my mother would come back.

Perhaps she would remember that I was scared.

Perhaps my father would realize what he had done and apologize.

Perhaps they would return and tell me that the entire conversation had been a horrible misunderstanding.

But one hour passed after another.

Eventually, evening arrived.

Neither parent came back.

I was frightened of the cancer growing inside me.

Yet cancer wasn’t what shattered my heart that day.

The unbearable realization was that my parents had calculated what my survival might cost them and concluded that my life wasn’t worth paying for.

I was still watching the doorway when I heard a soft knock.

A woman stood there with a folded blanket in her arms.

Dark curls were loosely gathered into a ponytail. Her brown eyes looked tired, and beneath her blue nursing scrubs she wore an old, well-used pair of sneakers.

Her name was Rachel Morgan.

She was thirty-four.

And although I couldn’t have known it then, she was about to change the course of my entire life.