Chapter 1: The Lie That Broke Us

My older sister came in for a checkup at the hospital where I work and was diagnosed with leukemia. And as it turned out, my bone marrow was a perfect match.

I remember the sterile chill of the hospital—the way the air seemed to freeze under my scrubs, the fluorescent lights above humming, as if they were the only ones listening. The results landed in my hands, and I stared at the printout for a long moment, letting the truth settle in my bones. My hands shook, not out of fear, but from a strange, bitter anticipation. Was this what fate felt like?

Just to see what they'd do, I told my family that I was the one who was sick.

It was like tossing a match into dry grass. I barely finished speaking before the sparks caught. The reaction was instant, sharp.

They all objected at once.

"Donating bone marrow's risky. We can't let your sister take that chance."

"If you're sick, don't drag your sister into it. Life and death are in God's hands. You just have to accept it."

Their voices overlapped, each one louder than the last, as if volume could drown out the discomfort. I just sat there, listening. The room felt suddenly smaller, the air thick with everything unsaid.

My sister? She refused, saying she was trying for a baby.

She barely looked up from her phone. Her tone was flat, like my illness was just another inconvenience. I saw her husband and my mom exchange a look—a silent agreement passing between them.

That thin illusion of family love finally cracked. Just like that, it was over.

It was like a spiderweb shattering—one wrong move, and it was gone.

I’d been tiptoeing around the truth for years. Hoping for warmth that never really existed.

Suddenly, I saw it all for what it was. I left the test results behind. Walked out of my family’s house for good.

The air outside felt colder. At least out here, the cold was honest. I didn’t look back. The test results sat on the kitchen table, a silent accusation no one would answer.

When I got the news about the successful bone marrow match, I had just found out I was pregnant.

I was standing by the window. The sunlight glinted off the ultrasound photo I’d tucked into my planner. The phone call felt surreal, like it belonged to someone else’s life. I barely heard the words.

My doctor pulled me aside, looking grave. He paused, searching my face for a reaction.

He spoke softly, his eyes searching mine for some sign of understanding. I could tell he hated delivering news like this, but he was careful, gentle. "It’s a big decision, Casey. You really need to think about what you want."

He told me to think it over and talk to my husband. I felt my stomach twist.

He patted my arm awkwardly. As if he wanted to offer more but didn’t know how. I nodded, my mind already racing.

I was honestly torn. Torn. That was the only word for it.

The word barely covered it. I was split in two. I felt split right down the middle, pulled between two worlds that could never meet.

To have this child, I’d taken all sorts of vitamins, changed my diet, and spent months getting ready.

Every morning, the same routine. Kale, pills, hope. I remembered the countless mornings I’d woken up early, blending kale smoothies and swallowing prenatal pills, tracking cycles and reading every article I could find. It had become a ritual—one I clung to for hope.

And when my husband found out I was pregnant, he was so thrilled. He wanted to shout it from the rooftops.

He’d danced me around the living room, lifting me off my feet. His joy was so contagious that even the neighbors’ dog barked along. He’d already started planning the nursery. Picking out paint colors, arguing over names.

How could I possibly end this pregnancy? I couldn’t. Not after everything.

The thought of giving up this little life, after all the hope and effort, felt like tearing out a piece of myself. It hurt just to think about it.

My hands drifted to my stomach, protective already. I couldn’t help it.

But Lila was only twenty-nine. She was different from me. She always was.

She was the apple of my parents’ eye. Raised right by their side from day one.

I don’t think my parents would survive it if anything happened to her.

She’d always been the golden child—their pride, their joy. Never me.

Every holiday photo, every story at the dinner table, somehow circled back to Lila. It never failed.

I’d learned to live in the edges of their love. But I couldn’t deny their world revolved around her.

So after wrestling with it all afternoon, I decided to go home, just this once, after work that night.

My heart pounded the whole drive. My hands gripped the wheel.

The familiar streets felt foreign. Every porch light a reminder of what I’d never really had.

Still, I needed to see for myself if anything had changed. I doubted it.

When I got back, my family was all there, having dinner together.

The windows glowed with warm light. Laughter spilled out as I walked up the driveway. A sound that once meant home. Now, it felt like an inside joke I’d never been told.

Besides Lila’s husband and little boy, my younger brother, Aaron Mason, and his girlfriend were there too.

They were all there, the whole Mason clan plus a couple of outsiders who fit in better than I ever did. Even Aaron’s girlfriend, who barely knew me, had a seat at the table.

They were clinking glasses, clearly celebrating something. Of course they were.

I paused in the entryway, watching as they toasted with wine and sparkling cider. The scent of roast chicken drifted out, mashed potatoes piled high, and a store-bought cake that said "Bon Voyage, Lila!" in blue icing sat at the center.

But the happy scene froze the second I walked in. Like I’d flipped a switch.

It was like someone hit the mute button. The silence was deafening. Forks hovered in midair, smiles faded, and every head turned my way.

I felt their eyes on me—some surprised, some annoyed, none welcoming.

The dining room went quiet. Everyone wiped the smiles off their faces. Awkwardly, they set down their forks.

Even the little boy stared, wide-eyed, as if I were a ghost crashing the party. Maybe I was.

Someone’s phone buzzed, too loud in the silence.

Only my mom forced a couple of laughs and put on her best fake smile.

"We figured you were busy, so we didn’t call. Who knew you’d be so lucky, huh? Come on, sit and eat with us."

Her voice was honey-sweet, but her hands never stopped moving, stacking plates and refilling glasses for everyone but me. She never even looked at me.

But no matter how sweet her words sounded, they couldn’t hide the distance in her actions. I felt it, clear as day.

She didn’t meet my eyes, didn’t scoot her chair closer. The space between us felt like a canyon.

Suddenly, I felt like stirring the pot. Why not?

Maybe it was the months of holding my tongue. Maybe it was the baby growing inside me. But something inside snapped.

I wanted to see how far their love would stretch—or if it would snap, too. I doubted it.

For once, I acted out of character. I turned and gently took the hand that was halfway reaching for my arm.

"Mom, I’m sick." I waited.

My mom’s hand stiffened. But she forced herself to let me hold it.

Her fingers went cold in mine, but she pasted on a smile for the others, as if nothing was wrong. I felt the chill.

"...Uh, if you’re sick, eat more. Food cures everything, you know. Eat more, you’ll feel better."

She brushed me off, didn’t even ask what was wrong. She used the excuse of shifting her chair to pull her hand away.

She straightened her napkin and fussed with her hair, pretending not to notice the worry in my eyes. She never did.

Aaron frowned. Here we go.

"Casey, did you come back just to ruin the mood? Seriously, Casey? Every time something good happens at home, you show up and wreck it."

He shot me a look that said I was the rain on his parade—the black sheep who always brought a storm.

"Today, Lila got picked for the trip to Europe. Of course. Don’t tell me you did this on purpose."

His voice dripped with accusation, like I’d planned my timing just to spoil their celebration.

I ignored him and sat down in the chair my mom had pulled out for me. Let him talk.

I smoothed my skirt and tried to steady my hands. The chair felt cold, like it knew I didn’t belong. I sat anyway.

"...I have leukemia." Silence.

Aaron went quiet. For once.

The words hung in the air, heavier than the chandelier overhead. For a moment, nobody moved.