I always hated my half-sister. Dad left when I was three because of her. I used to say that one day she would need me and I would enjoy seeing her suffer. Then at twenty-four I got very sick. An autoimmune disorder was destroying my liver. The doctor said if I did not get a transplant I had months left—maybe less. Then Lara walked into my hospital room. No warning. She looked like him—same eyes, same crooked smile. She had seen the news online, called the hospital, and asked to be tested. She was the only compatible match. Rare blood type and tissue compatibility. She signed the paperwork the next day.
I could not look her in the eye. All those years of resentment did not prepare me for the reality of her standing there with tears and saying she would do it. She visited every day. Sometimes she brought books. Sometimes she just sat. I waited for her to gloat or make a cruel comment.
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