The words didn’t make sense at first. I kept waiting for him to say he was kidding, that he was just stressed and didn’t mean it. But he stood there, arms still crossed, face set in determination.
“You cannot be serious,” Dr. Patterson said.
“We have another child to think about,” my mother said, and her voice was defensive now, like she was the victim in this situation. “Jessica has a future. She’s going to do great things. We can’t let—” she gestured vaguely in my direction, “this destroy everything we’ve built.”
“Mom.” My voice came out small, childish. “I’m scared.”
She looked at me then. Finally.
“You’ll be fine, Sarah. The doctor said the survival rate is good. You’ll get treated. You’ll get better. And when you’re 18, you can figure out your own life. But we can’t sacrifice Jessica’s future for this.”
“I’m your daughter,” I whispered.
“And so is Jessica,” my father snapped. “And she actually has potential. She’s going to be a doctor or a lawyer. She’s brilliant. You,” he paused, looking me up and down, “you’ve always been average. Average grades, average everything. We’re not destroying a promising future for an average one.”
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Dr. Patterson stood up abruptly.
“I’m going to ask you to leave my office while I speak with Sarah privately.”
“We’re her parents,” my mother started.
“Leave now.” Dr. Patterson’s voice had gone cold and hard. “Or I will call security and social services.”
They left. Jessica followed without even glancing at me, still on her phone. The door clicked shut behind them, and suddenly I couldn’t breathe. The full weight of what had just happened crashed over me, and I started sobbing, huge gasping sobs that made my whole body shake.
Dr. Patterson pulled his chair close and waited until I could breathe again.
“Sarah, I need you to listen to me very carefully. What your parents just said, that’s not okay. That’s not legal, and it’s not happening. I’m calling social services right now. You’re not leaving this hospital without a plan in place that puts you first. Do you understand?”
I nodded, wiping my face with the scratchy hospital tissues.
“You have cancer. That’s scary, and it’s going to be hard. But you’re going to beat this, and you’re going to do it surrounded by people who actually care about you. I promise you that.”
He kept his promise. Within an hour, a social worker named Margaret was in the room. Within two hours, they’d moved me to a pediatric oncology room and officially admitted me for treatment. And within three hours, my parents had signed emergency temporary custody papers, effectively abandoning me to the state.
They didn’t even say goodbye.
That first night in the pediatric oncology ward was the darkest of my life. I lay in that hospital bed, hooked up to IVs, surrounded by machines that beeped and hummed, and I felt more alone than I’d ever imagined possible. I wasn’t scared of the cancer anymore. I was scared that no one would care if I lived or died.
Then Rachel walked in for the night shift.
Rachel Torres was 34 years old, a pediatric oncology nurse who’d been working at St. Mary’s for 8 years. She had dark curly hair pulled back in a practical ponytail, warm brown eyes, and a smile that actually reached those eyes. She wasn’t beautiful in a conventional way, but there was something about her presence that made you feel safe.