When I was too sick to eat, she’d sit with me and tell stories until the nausea passed. When I lost my hair, she showed me photos of herself from her own bad hair phase in high school, until I laughed. When I had nightmares about being alone forever, she held my hand until I fell back asleep.
My parents didn’t visit, not once. My caseworker, Margaret, said they’d signed full surrender papers, giving up all parental rights. Jessica was busy with SAT prep and college applications. I was truly on my own, except I wasn’t because Rachel was there.
On day 28 of my hospital stay, when the induction phase was complete and I was in remission, Dr. Patterson came in with good news.
“You’re responding beautifully to treatment, Sarah. We can move to outpatient care now. You’ll need to come in regularly for chemo, but you won’t have to live here.”
“Where will she go?” Rachel asked immediately. She was technically off duty, but had stayed late, as she often did.
“Foster care,” Margaret said. She was there, too, always coordinating my placement. “I have a family lined up. They’re experienced with medical needs.”
“I want to take her.”
Everyone looked at Rachel.
“I want to foster her. I’m already approved. I did the training two years ago, but never had a placement. I can do this. I want to do this.”
Margaret and Dr. Patterson exchanged glances.
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