I refused to donate my bone marrow to my dying nine-year-old stepson after the doctors told us I was the only match.
“I’ve only been in his life for three years,” I said flatly. “I’m not risking my health for a kid who isn’t even mine.”
The words sounded cold even to my own ears, but at the time I convinced myself they were logical. Bone marrow donation wasn’t a small thing. There were risks, complications, recovery time. I told myself I barely knew the boy when I married his father. I hadn’t been there for his childhood, his first steps, his first day of school.
Why should I sacrifice for a child who wasn’t truly mine?
My husband didn’t argue. That silence somehow made me angrier.
Without another word, I packed a bag and went to stay with my sister.
I expected my phone to ring within a few days. Maybe my husband would beg. Maybe the doctors would call again to pressure me. Maybe someone would tell me I was heartless.
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