I stepped back.
“You can’t undamage my brain. You can’t give me back the years I could have been healthy.”
“Lena, no.”
I turned toward my car.
“You chose her every time. Every single time. And now I’m choosing me.”
I drove away while she stood there crying behind the dental office dumpsters.
I was almost back to campus when Ava called. I almost didn’t answer, but something made me pick up.
“Lena.”
Her voice was small. Scared.
“Mom just called me. She’s She’s really upset.”
“Good.”
“Don’t Don’t leave. Please. We can work this out as a family.”
Put the car in park. Close my eyes.
“Ava, did you know I was sick when we were younger?”
Silence.
“Ava, I heard them fighting one night,” she whispered. “You were in the hospital. Dad was yelling at mom that they couldn’t afford both your treatment and my school. And mom was crying and saying they had to find a way. And then dad said—”
Her voice broke.
“He said that keeping you calm was better than scaring you with a diagnosis you couldn’t understand.”
“And you agreed with him.”
“I was 12. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t understand how serious it was.”
“But you know now. You’ve known for years and you didn’t say anything.”
“I was scared.”
She was crying now.
“I was scared you’d hate me. That you’d blame me for their choices. That everything would fall apart.”
“Everything is falling apart, Ava. It’s been falling apart for years. We just pretended it wasn’t.”
“Please don’t hate me.”
I wanted to hate her. It would be easier than this complicated mess of love and anger and grief. But she was my sister, and she’d been a kid caught in the same web of lies I had.
“I don’t hate you,” I said finally. “But I can’t be around any of you right now. I need space. I need time.”
“How much time?”
“I don’t know.”
I hung up before she could say anything else. The next morning, I woke up to 17 missed calls and a voicemail from my father. I listened to it while taking my medication. The medication I should have been taking for years.
“Lena, listen. Don’t talk to anyone about the tests. We can sort this out privately. Family business stays in the family. Call me back.”
I deleted it. Dr. Chen’s office called at 9.
“Can you come in today? Your lab results are back and the doctor wants to discuss them with you immediately.”
I was there by 10:00. Dr. Chen’s expression when I walked into her office told me everything I needed to know. This was going to be bad. She pulled up two MRI scans on her computer screen, one labeled 5 years ago and one labeled last week. Even I could see the difference. The newer skin showed shadows that weren’t in the old one, patterns that looked wrong.
“Lena,” she said gently, “you should have been treated back then. The progression is significant.”
I already knew this, but hearing it stated so clearly so finally made something collapse inside me. You have an early stage but progressive neurological inflammation disorder. It’s treatable, but the delay in treatment has complicated things.
“Complicated how?”
My voice sounded distant, like it belonged to someone else.
“Long-term risks include partial motor delays, recurring fainting spells, potential nerve damage.”
She paused.
“Most of this could have been prevented if you’d started treatment 5 years ago.”
I sank into the chair. My hands were shaking.
“Is it my fault for not pushing harder? For not—”
