I refused to donate my bone marrow to my nine-year-old stepson who was dying, after doctors told us that I was the only compatible donor.“I’ve only been a part of his life for three years,” I declared coldly. “I’m not going to risk my health for a child who isn’t even mine.”
Those words sounded cold even to my own ears, but at that moment I convinced myself they were logical. Bone marrow donation wasn’t trivial. There were risks, complications, and a recovery period. I kept telling myself that I barely knew that boy when I married his father. I hadn’t been there for his childhood, his first steps, or his first day of school.
Why should I sacrifice myself for a child who wasn’t really mine?
My husband didn’t protest. That silence, paradoxically, enraged me even more.
Without saying another word, I packed my suitcase and went to my sister’s house.
I expected my phone to ring in the following days. Maybe my husband would plead with me. Maybe the doctors would call again to pressure me. Maybe someone would tell me I had no heart.
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