The words cut through the room like a scalpel. That was the very first thing my father said. He didn’t ask if I was in pain. He didn’t ask if I was going to lose my hair, or if I was going to die. Just, How much?
Dr. Patterson blinked, momentarily derailed. He cleared his throat, adjusting his collar. “With your current insurance, you’ll be responsible for roughly twenty percent of the costs over the full course of treatment. That could be anywhere from sixty thousand to one hundred thousand dollars out of pocket. But we have financial assistance programs, payment plans—”
My father let out a harsh, barking laugh that held absolutely no humor. “You’re telling me we have to pay a hundred grand because she managed to get herself sick?”
“Robert,” my mother murmured quietly, though her gaze remained glued to the ceiling.
“Sir, I understand this is overwhelming,” Dr. Patterson said, his voice dropping an octave, slipping into a soothing, authoritative register. “But Sarah’s prognosis is excellent. With immediate treatment, she has every chance of beating this and living a completely normal life.”
My father waved a dismissive hand. “Jessica is applying to colleges next year. Yale. Princeton. She got a 1520 on her SAT. We’ve been saving for her education since the day she was born.”
A cold, heavy dread coiled deep in my gut. The room went perfectly silent. Dr. Patterson looked between my parents and me, his professional mask slipping to reveal pure, unadulterated shock.
“Perhaps we should discuss this privately,” the doctor suggested softly. “Sarah doesn’t need to—”
“Sarah needs to understand reality,” my father snapped, cutting him off completely. He finally turned his head and looked at me. There was a terrifying void in his eyes. No warmth, no protective instinct. I was suddenly nothing more than a bad investment, a leaking liability on a balance sheet. “We have one hundred and eighty thousand dollars in the college fund. That’s for your sister’s education. Her future. We’re not throwing that away on medical bills.”
It felt as if a fault line had cracked open right through my chest.
“There are other options,” Dr. Patterson pleaded, his voice now strained with suppressed anger. “State programs, charity care, Medicaid.”
“We’re not taking charity,” my mother suddenly snapped, a bizarre spark of middle-class pride finally animating her rigid face. “What would the neighbors think?”
“What exactly are you suggesting?” Dr. Patterson asked. The disbelief in his voice was palpable.
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