I was rolling up my sleeve for the donor test, praying, and then hearing the words that shattered me.
“You’re ruled out. You’re not a match.”
I was standing in a hospital corridor.
I was watching my Luke, 18, sit on the edge of a hospital bed, calm in a way no teenager should ever have to be. He was a perfect match.
“Sweetheart, I know you want to help her,” I’d begged him. “But you’re my baby, too. How am I supposed to watch them wheel you both away?”
“She’s my little sister, Mom.” He’d taken my hand. “How could I live with myself, knowing I hadn’t done everything I could to save her?”
He was a perfect match.
The doctors had said the risks were low. They’d said they expected both children to recover. They’d said many things.
The surgery went well. Hannah turned pink again, then loud, then hungry. But Luke got quieter. Then paler and weaker by the day. Then a doctor pulled me into a small office and asked me to sit down.
