The Daughter They Let Rot
Bianca is dying.
Acute myeloid leukemia, stage three. The family doctor told me on the phone—bone marrow transplant, only option, perfect match. Identical twins share ninety-nine percent compatibility.
I crushed the diagnosis report. My name was at the top: Gemma Blackwell. But the doctor trembled, whispering apologies. A clerical error. The sick twin was Bianca. The cure was me.
I had to get home.
Rain lashed the taxi windows. I rehearsed the scene: Father setting down his cigar, Mother gasping, me explaining the mix-up. The report has my name, but the blood work is Bianca's. I can fix this before it's too late.
My phone lit up. Family group chat. Father's message was short:
[Gemma is terminal. Bianca forbidden from donation. Family decision.]
My blood turned to ice.
They had seen the misdelivered file. They thought I was the one dying—and they had voted to let me rot.
When I pushed open the door and saw Father, I felt it—
the temperature drop, the world freezing around me.
Tears burned my eyes. I couldn't stop them.
"Father," I said, my voice barely steady.
"I have a question for you."
He looked up from his cigar, annoyed.
"If it were Bianca dying," I whispered. "Would you have made me give her my marrow?"
The room went silent.
He set down the cigar. A long pause.
"No," he said finally. "Of course. We have resources. We would find another donor. We would never ask you to take that risk."
I smiled a little. Just a small, sad smile.
"Good," I said softly. "That's exactly what you said. Don't regret this."