The needle pierced my skin again, and dark blood flowed steadily through the tubing into the collection tubes. My vision blurred, and the sounds around me were muffled, as if I were underwater.
"The patient has had multiple bone marrow extractions. We need to assess organ reserve function and schedule an abdominal MRI with contrast," the nurse said, reaching into her pocket for a pen.
Mom's brows immediately knitted together. "I said no metal! Why are you still carrying that?"
I weakly said, "Mom, I want to write one more wish."
"Once you're done, it stays outside," Mom said, looking at my outstretched hand and my pale face.
She pressed her lips together, took the pen from the nurse, and placed it gently back in my palm. "Go ahead. Write it."
I opened my left hand and set the pen tip on the thin skin of my palm. When I finished, I curled my fingers around the words, holding them like the last fragile spark of hope.
Mom's eyes fell on my clenched fist. "What did you write?"
I lifted my head and managed a faint smile. "I'll tell you once I make it out alive."
A flicker of emotion crossed Mom's eyes. "You're not going to die. Stop saying things like that."
She nodded to the nurse, and the checkup proceeded without issue. I was wheeled into the operating room. Through the glass partition, I caught sight of Anna on another stretcher.
Her eyes were closed, lashes long, her wrist delicate and pale, her skin flawless from a life of care, like a porcelain doll. My own wrist was bony, veins dark beneath thin skin, like a weak sprout struggling for sunlight.
We were the same age. I had even been born first.
From outside the door, I could make out hushed voices.
"This child is too weak. Multiple donations have left her body fragile. All indicators are on the borderline. A kidney transplant is highly invasive, and postoperative complications are far more likely than usual. You must carefully consider this consent form and fully understand the risks."
A short silence followed.
Dad hesitated. "Should we delay a bit so Jenna can rest and recover?"
Mom snapped, "Rest? Do you have any idea how many connections I had to pull, how much I had to spend to bring a foreign expert here for this surgery? Their schedule is packed. If we don't do it now, the next slot won't be until next year! Do you think Anna can wait? What if something happens to her…"
She paused, then hissed through clenched teeth, "Do you even have a conscience, being her father?"
Silence fell again. The doctor said, "Jenna is also your daughter. What she has endured for Anna has already far exceeded what a child can handle—"
"I know," Mom cut him off sharply. "I know exactly what she has given, so sign the papers. I'll take full responsibility if anything goes wrong," she had said.
Soon, a team entered the operating room. I cast one last look toward the door. Through the narrow gap, I saw Mom turn away with a straight back, while Dad kept his head lowered, hiding his expression.
Darkness gently closed in.
I didn't know how much time had passed before the door opened again.
"I'm afraid Jenna has fallen into a coma and is still being resuscitated…"
"What about Anna?" Mom asked immediately.
"The recipient surgery was successful. Her kidney is functioning. If there's no severe rejection during the observation period, her prognosis should be good," the doctor said.
He paused for a moment before asking, "Are you certain they are twin sisters?"
A heavy silence followed. Mom's face tightened.
Dad firmly spoke up. "Of course! Jenna and Anna were born on the same day!"
The doctor shook his head. "The preoperative cross-matching and genetic screening results just came in. They show that Anna—the recipient—and Jenna—the donor—do share a biological connection, consistent with your claim that they are twins.
"However, Anna's genetic profile shows no parental link to Mr. Hawkins."
A suffocating silence fell over the corridor.
Mom let out a piercing cry, filled with disbelief. "This is impossible!"
