Chapter One
Celia's POV
When I was diagnosed with leukemia, the first thing I felt was relief.
I wasn't really their kid anyway. If I died, I wouldn't owe anybody anything.
When I was six, my little sister Sloane and I fought over a limited-edition doll. Mom dragged me into a corner and said it slowly, making sure I didn't miss a word.
"You're not our real daughter. Everything you have in this house is a handout from us."
After that, I never asked for anything again.
Sloane got new shoes, and I got her hand-me-downs. While Sloane went to piano lessons, I stood at the kitchen sink washing dishes to earn my breakfast money for the next day.
In that house, I was more like a piece of luggage someone had dropped off, just waiting to be picked up.
The doctor said a bone marrow transplant worked best with a match from immediate family. I didn't say a word about it at home.
Without telling anyone, I started looking for my birth parents. I also took the money I'd been saving for seven years and put a down payment on a cemetery plot.
Then last night, burning up with a fever, I dragged myself downstairs for a glass of water. As I passed the master bedroom, I heard my parents talking.
"Were we too hard on her back then? Our oldest acts like she's not even part of this family anymore."
"If we hadn't told her that, would she let Sloane have her way every time? Sloane's the one we adopted."
The glass slipped out of my hand, rolled twice across the floor, and stopped at my feet.
So I was their real daughter. The girl they'd spoiled like their own flesh and blood for nineteen years was the one they'd adopted.
Standing outside their door, I laughed out loud.
But by then, my cancer had already gone too far.
"It's the middle of the night. What's all the noise out here?"
The bedroom door swung open. Mom stood in the doorway, her brows pinched together.
The hallway light was dim, but it was just bright enough for me to see how irritated she was.
Less than six feet stood between us, and a broken glass lay at my feet.
The fever made everything blur, but the look on her face was perfectly clear. She was on guard, and annoyed at being woken up.
"I dropped it."
I said it quietly and bent down to pick up the pieces.
She looked me up and down and sighed.
"You're such a klutz. Sloane has a piano competition tomorrow. If you wake her up, you can explain it to your father yourself."
Dad's voice came from inside the room, short and impatient.
"Enough. Tell her to clean it up and go to bed. I don't want her standing around out there getting on my nerves."
Mom crossed her arms and gave me an ice-cold stare.
"You heard him. Clean it up."
My face was flushed red and my whole body shook as I crouched on the floor, but she didn't ask me a single thing.
I kept quiet and closed my hand around the last shard.
The sharp edge sliced right into my index finger. Blood welled up and dripped onto the wool rug, spreading into a small dark red stain.
By this point, my blood barely clotted at all. Before long, my whole palm was covered in it.
Mom finally noticed.
She sucked in a sharp breath, but what came out of her mouth was an accusation.
"Celia, you did that on purpose, didn't you?"
"That's Sloane's favorite rug. You just had to ruin it? What are you trying to prove?"
I stared at the blood running off my fingertip. A chill seeped out from deep in my bones, so cold that even breathing hurt.
Nineteen years.
Ever since I'd heard "you're not our real daughter" at six, I'd lived in that house like a thief, careful with every step.
I didn't dare ask for new clothes or an allowance. I didn't even let myself think about being sick.
I was afraid they'd throw me out.
Now I finally understood. I'd never been a thief. I was just a joke, a girl whose own parents had taken everything from her.
"I'm sorry."
I pulled my hand back and pressed my palm hard against the cut.
"I'll get the stain out."
Mom gave a cold little snort and slammed the door in my face.
Alone in the hallway, I scrubbed the blood out bit by bit, then went back to the windowless storage room next to the laundry room.
The hard wooden bed dug into my back, and the pain deep in my bones kept coming back in waves.
Three days earlier, in the hematology-oncology department at City Hospital, the doctor had held up my test results and looked at me like he was genuinely sorry.
"It's acute myeloid leukemia, and it's already advanced."
"You need a bone marrow transplant as soon as possible. Matches from immediate family have the best odds. Can you give me your parents' contact info?"
I held the thin report and calmly shook my head.
"I don't have parents."
I was adopted. Where was I supposed to find immediate family?
So I gave up on treatment.
Over the years, waiting tables and tutoring, I'd saved up seven thousand dollars. Every cent of it went into the down payment on a cemetery plot on the edge of town.
I was paying off the last twelve hundred in monthly installments. If I could hang on for two more months, the plot would be mine.
But tonight, I'd heard it with my own ears. The lie they'd kept from me for nineteen years had fallen apart.
I had parents after all. There were two people in this world whose bone marrow could save my life.
But I didn't want to beg them anymore.
The next morning, as soon as the sun was up, I gritted my teeth through the pain, got up, and made breakfast like always.
Sloane was already sitting at the table in a brand-new designer jacket, looking like a little princess everyone doted on.
Two weeks earlier, I'd stood outside a store window at the mall and stared at that jacket for a long time.
Back then, Mom had said a jacket that expensive wasn't for an outsider like me.
The next thing I knew, she'd bought it for Sloane.
"Celia, you look terrible today."
Sloane slowly cut into her fried egg, her eyes wide and innocent.
"Rough night? Here, you can have my milk. I can't finish it anyway."
She slid her half-empty glass of milk toward me.
Mom came over right away, grabbed the glass, and dumped it down the sink.
"Celia, Sloane's being nice, but who do you think you are?"
"What if you're sick and you give it to her, and she can't compete today? You want that on you?"
I watched the milk swirl down the drain, and my stomach kept turning.
"I'm done eating."
I got up from the table without looking at anyone.
Dad put his newspaper down and frowned.
"Hold it."
"Sloane has a competition today, and you're not even coming to carry her bag? Where do you think you're going?"
I turned around, my throat raw from the fever.
"There's something I need to take care of."
Mom scoffed.
"Something to take care of? What could you possibly have to do? Going out to play the victim for somebody again?"
"I'm warning you. Don't try that act with me."
I didn't explain. I pushed the door open and walked out.
The sunlight outside was blinding. Standing at the side of the road, I called the organ donation center.
"Hi, I have a quick question."
"Can someone with late-stage leukemia still donate their corneas?"
