I felt the first tear slide down my cheek before I could stop it, hot and humiliating. Doctor Emerson's hand found my shoulder, a gentle weight offering support. The gesture nearly undid me—his kindness more devastating than the woman's clinical detachment.
But something happened as the second and third tears formed. A strange heat began building in my chest, spreading outward until it reached my fingertips. Not sadness—something fiercer, more potent. Anger. Not the childish tantrums like when I was very young and unable to understand the needles and pain, but something cold and clarifying. The kind of anger that didn't explode but transformed.
I reached up with both hands and swiped away the tears roughly. With all my might, I swallowed down the pain. I sat up. I locked my jaw in place to stay its trembling. And blinked back rebellious moisture until my vision cleared and I could focus, with laser precision on Ms. Doone’s face.
She seemed momentarily taken aback by whatever she saw in my expression, her professional mask slipping just enough to reveal surprise before she composed herself.
"What happens now?" I asked, my voice steadier than I would have thought possible moments before.
"Brightfield House will remain your primary residence," she explained, regaining her footing. "Your medical care will continue uninterrupted, funded through the Omega Protection Act. I'll be your assigned case manager, overseeing your treatment plan and any legal matters that arise. Doctor Emerson has agreed to serve as your medical proxy for treatment decisions. We’ll do a reassessment yearly and your care will continue until such a time when you’re either released or… no longer in need of care."
“So, basically, OCS will take care of me until either I’m cured, or I’m dead,” I said dryly, trying to act like I couldn’t care less about what was happening to me, even as a stabbing sensation shot through my heart.
“Um,” the woman shuffled uneasily, “We don’t like to word it so… um… fatalistically, but that is the gist of the situation, Lucy.”
Doctor Emerson squeezed my shoulder gently. “Nothing changes in your day-to-day care, Lucy. The staff here will continue to look after you, just as we always have.”
What he meant was that nothing would change because my parents had already disappeared from my life long ago. This was just paperwork catching up to reality. The people who truly cared for me—the nurses, doctors, and staff who showed up daily—had been my real family for years.
"Your parents left this for you," Ms. Doone said, producing a sealed white envelope she’d apparently been holding beneath the tablet. "And they've authorized continued deposit of funds into your trust account, which will become accessible when you turn twenty-one. If you are unable to claim it at that time, the funds will revert to your parents."
‘Unable to claim’. Yet another ‘in case of death’ caveat.
I stared at the envelope, its crisp white edges perfectly aligned. So neat and tidy, this disposal of a daughter. I made no move to take it.
"You can read it whenever you're ready," Doctor Emerson said quietly.
"I'm ready now," I replied, finally accepting the envelope and breaking the seal with steady fingers.
The note inside was brief, written in my mother's neat handwriting on monogrammed stationery:
Lucy,
This is for the best. We can't give you what you need. The doctors at Brightfield can. Be good.
—Mom and Dad
No "love." No apology. No acknowledgment of what they were throwing away. Just practical considerations and a child reduced to a problem they’d finally solved.
I refolded the note with precise movements and returned it to the envelope. What had I expected?Tear stains on the paper? Heartfelt explanations? Some evidence that this decision had cost them anything at all?
"Is there anything you want to ask, Lucy?" Ms. Doone prompted, her voice still professionally detached.
“No,” I said sharply. “I think you’ve thoroughly explained things. I’d like you to leave now.”
"Lucy—" Doctor Emerson began, concern evident in his voice.
"I'm fine," I interrupted, turning to face them. And strangely, I meant it. The anger had burned through something essential, cauterizing wounds that had festered for years. What remained was a curious lightness, as if I'd set down a burden I'd carried so long I'd forgotten what it felt like to stand straight. Maybe I wasn’t just my parents’ burden. Maybe they were mine too. I didn’t have to get better for them now. I didn’t have to blame myself for being sick.
"I'm fine," I repeated, the words stronger this time. "At least now I know where I stand."
Ms. Doone made a few notes on her tablet. “I have all I need. If you have any questions later, Doctor Emerson can relay them to me. This may feel terrible right now, Lucy, but your parents are doing what they think is right for you.”
She was wrong of course.
They weren’t doing this for me.
All I could think, as Doctor Emerson led Ms. Doone away was that I’d make them regret giving up on me. I’d fight tooth and nail to survive.
