“How much?” That was the first thing my father said. Not, “Is she going to be okay?” or, “What can we do to help?” Just, “How much?”
Dr. Patterson cleared his throat. “With your insurance, you’ll be responsible for roughly 20% of the costs over the full treatment course. That could be anywhere from $60,000 to $100,000 out of pocket, but we have financial assistance programs, payment plans.”
My father’s laugh was harsh and cold. “You’re telling me we have to pay a hundred grand because she got sick?”
“Robert,” my mother said quietly, but she didn’t look at me. She still hadn’t looked at me since the diagnosis.
“Sir, I understand this is overwhelming,” Dr. Patterson said. “But Sarah’s prognosis is excellent. With treatment, she has every chance of beating this and living a completely normal life.”
“Jessica is applying to colleges next year,” my father said, as if the doctor hadn’t spoken. “Yale, Princeton. She got a 1520 on her SAT. We’ve been saving for her education since she was born.”
The room went silent. Dr. Patterson looked between my parents and me, clearly uncomfortable.
“Perhaps we should discuss this privately. Sarah doesn’t need to—”
“Sarah needs to understand reality,” my father cut him off.
He finally looked at me, and there was nothing in his eyes. No love, no concern, just cold calculation.
“We have $180,000 in the college fund. That’s for your sister’s education, her future. We’re not throwing that away on medical bills.”
I felt something crack inside my chest, and it had nothing to do with the cancer.
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