“There are other options,” Dr. Patterson said, his voice strained. “State programs, charity care, Medicaid.”
“We’re not taking charity,” my mother spoke up suddenly, some spark of pride finally animating her face. “What would people think then?”
“What are you suggesting?” Dr. Patterson asked, and I could hear the disbelief creeping into his professional demeanor.
My father looked at me for a long moment.
“She’s 13. She can be emancipated, become a ward of the state, then she qualifies for full Medicaid coverage, and it doesn’t touch our finances.”
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.
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