Chapter 1

To save my daughter Sophie Abbott when her leukemia relapsed, I went through six rounds of hormone stimulation, two miscarriages, a hemorrhage after delivery, and finally gave birth to Leslie, the one match she needed.

The year Leslie turned five, he completed his marrow harvest.

Those life-saving cells that should have gone straight into Sophie's transplant unit were signed away instead, by my husband Patrick Vance, to the son of his first love, Melanie Acevedo.

He lied to me. He said an overseas donor would arrive in three days.

Sophie held on for three days. In the end she died in my arms.

I was destroyed with grief, and then, of all things, Irvin Fox developed graft rejection, and Patrick wanted Leslie, still burning with fever, to donate his marrow a second time.

The doctor said another harvest might mean the boy never came off the operating table. I knelt on the floor and begged him, and he had security drag me away.

"Sophie is already dead. Are you going to stand there and watch Irvin die too?"

Two hours later, a nurse wheeled out a small bed with a white sheet over it.

Patrick pulled me in, my hands still covered in blood.

"Stephanie Simmons, it's all right. We're still young. We can have another."

I didn't cry. I just tucked away both my children's death certificates.

He didn't know that this body of mine, worn down by the miscarriages and the births, would never carry a child again.

And that after tonight, he would never have a wife again either.

1

Sophie's heart stopped at three in the morning.

When the monitor started shrieking, I was still kneeling at her bedside, holding a hand that had wasted down to bone.

For three days she had kept asking me,

"Mommy, is my little brother a superhero? With his help, does that mean it won't hurt anymore? When is he getting here?"

Every time, I told her soon. But soon never came for Sophie.

The doctor took off his mask and said he had done everything he could.

I wiped the blood from her lips and fastened the top button of her hospital gown.

The nurse who had cared for her handed me a piece of paper, her eyes red.

"Mommy, when I get better, I'll protect little brother. I'll be his hero."

I stared at it a long time, long enough for my tears to run dry, and then I asked,

"The marrow Leslie donated three days ago. Why was it never brought over?"

No one in the room answered. There was only the doctor's flickering expression and the nurse's face, full of anger she couldn't voice.

I turned and went to find Patrick.

The other side of the transplant center was blazing with light. Melanie sat at the bedside of Irvin, who had the same leukemia, and Patrick stood behind her with a hand on her shoulder.

I moved closer, step by step, until I could read the donor's name spelled out plainly on the electronic screen. Leslie Simmons.

My son. The marrow that should have gone to his own sister.

I rushed in.

"Why is Sophie's marrow here? That's what my son donated."

Melanie's face changed.

Patrick turned, his eyes worn out.

"Irvin took a sudden turn for the worse last night. He couldn't wait for a new donor, so we had to use Sophie's."

Irvin wasn't the only one who took a turn for the worse. My Sophie died last night.

"Patrick, that's the marrow my son donated. Sophie is your own daughter! You gave up on Sophie to save a stranger?"

"What stranger? Both children were waiting to be saved. Irvin's case was more urgent. The overseas donor's marrow arrived. Sophie will be fine soon."

Patrick had arranged everything, so pleased with himself, but my Sophie couldn't wait for marrow anymore. She was already dead.

Half-blind with rage, I slapped Sophie's death notice against his chest.

"Your daughter couldn't wait. She's dead. She's already dead!"

The paper slid to the floor.

Patrick went rigid. Melanie was already crying, clutching at my hand.

"Stephanie, hit me, curse me, whatever you want, but Irvin is only seven. I can't watch him die! I'll pay for Sophie's life, I beg you, don't blame Patrick, he only did it for me!"

I threw her off and stared at Patrick, hurting so much I couldn't squeeze out a single tear.

"So you already knew Leslie's marrow would never reach Sophie. To save Melanie's son, you could stand by and watch your own daughter go to her death. Is that it?"

He said nothing. The silence itself was the clearest answer.

Crying came from the far end of the corridor.

A nurse was wheeling Leslie out, his face ghostly pale, a thick wad of gauze taped to the small of his back.

He saw me and forced himself up, still smiling at me.

"Mommy, did Sophie get to use my marrow?"

I choked, and not one word would come.

He was so small. He had bravely gone up on that operating table to save his sister. How could I tell him that his sister was gone, that the marrow he had nearly killed himself to give had gone into someone else's body?

Patrick pressed him back down.

"Be good, Leslie. There was a little accident on Sophie's side."

Leslie saw the death notice in my hand, and his tears spilled over.

"Is Sophie dead?"

I held him.

He was shaking all over from the pain, and still he whispered,

"Mommy, I'm sorry. I didn't save Sophie."

He was only five years old.

From the day he was born, everyone had told him he had come into this world to save his sister.

Six years ago, when Sophie was first diagnosed with leukemia, I had given her a transplant. After it failed, I went through six rounds of hormone stimulation.

Two miscarriages, and the last time seven months of bed rest to hold on to the pregnancy. I hardly ever got up, all so I could give birth to a child who was a match for Sophie.

The day Leslie was born, I hemorrhaged, and Patrick held my hand and said,

"Stephanie, our child can be saved now! I'll never let you and the children suffer again!"

Now Sophie was dead, and Leslie could barely lift his hand.

I shoved Patrick aside and held Leslie tight.

"Mommy's taking you home right now."

But Patrick blocked the way. He kept his head down, not daring to meet my eyes.

"Leslie can't leave yet."

Melanie explained, wiping her tears,

"After the transplant Irvin might reject it. The doctors recommend the donor stay in the hospital, and if it's needed, there'll have to be a second harvest."

A second harvest.

My Leslie was only five. The doctor had said it was a miracle he'd survived the table at his age. How could he possibly go through a second harvest?

I looked at Patrick.

In silence, he handed the authorization form to the hospital security.

"For the next few days, Leslie will be under the transplant center's care."

Two guards held me back at the door, and I saw clearly the signature at the bottom.

Guardian. Patrick Vance.