“What does this mean?”
“I don’t know.”
“You do.”
“I swear I don’t.”
I kept reading.
There is a patient upstairs. Her name is Emily.
My heart stopped.
Emily.
That was my daughter’s name.
For one terrible second, I thought—
Then I read the next line.
She is not our Emily.
My knees weakened.
I gripped the edge of the nurses’ station.
Her parents died in a car accident eleven months ago. She survived, but she has a condition that requires treatment almost no hospital will provide without a massive deposit.
I promised her mother before she died that I would not let Emily become another number on a waiting list.
So I started paying for her treatment myself.
Tears blurred the page.
I didn’t tell you because I knew you would sell everything we own to help me. You would do that. I know you.
