doctors told us that I was the only compatible.
“I’ve only been a part of his life for three years,” I stated coldly. “I’m not going to risk my health for a child that isn’t even mine.”
Those words sounded cold even to my own ears, but at the time I was convinced they were logical. Bone marrow donation was not trivial. There were risks, complications and a recovery period. I kept repeating that I barely knew this child when I married his father. He had not been present in his childhood, in his first steps or on his first day of school.
Why should I sacrifice myself for a child who wasn’t really mine?
My husband did not protest. That silence, paradoxically, made me even more angry.
Without saying a word more, I packed my suitcase and went to my sister’s house.
I was hoping my phone would ring in the next few days. Maybe my husband would beg me. Maybe the doctors would call back to pressure me. Perhaps someone would tell me I have no heart.
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