They Always Chose My Sister, So I Chose Myself

By the time Dr. Hayes slid the two test reports in front of me, night had swallowed the world outside. On the left was my sister Ava Bennett's bone marrow biopsy report: acute myeloid leukemia.   On the right was my obstetric ultrasound: 10 weeks and two days, with a steady fetal heartbeat.   "The transplant team reviewed the available family records." Dr. Hayes tapped the preliminary screening results. "You're a match, with the highest compatibility among all known candidates. We still need high resolution testing, but you're most likely her best shot."   I kept staring at the tiny blur of white on the ultrasound photo, unable to find the words.   Over the past three years, my husband, Noah Brown, and I had lost two babies. The first at 8 weeks, the second at 11 weeks. Each time, Diane had offered the same empty words over the phone, "You're young," then turned around and went to Ava's performance.   It was the third pregnancy we had waited and prayed for, and according to the doctor, our last chance worth fighting for.   "If Ava needs a transplant, can I donate?"   "You can't have bone marrow harvested or undergo peripheral blood stem cell mobilization during pregnancy," Dr. Hayes said. "Even if you terminate the pregnancy, there's no guarantee you'll be cleared to donate right away. Your body isn't a spare part sitting on a shelf, waiting to be used."   "What if she can't wait?"   Dr. Hayes was quiet for a moment. "We'll start induction therapy while continuing the search for a donor. Jessica, whether you continue this pregnancy is your choice. No one gets to sacrifice this baby for Ava's treatment plan."   My phone kept buzzing on the table.   In the family group chat, my mother, Diane Bennett, had posted a string of celebration photos. Ava sat in the middle of flowers and champagne wearing a paper crown, with a cake in front of her that read, Wish Ava A Successful Seravelle Solo Tour!   My stepfather, Richard Bennett, raised his glass, while our brother, Ethan Bennett, had an arm around her shoulders. The four of them looked like one big, happy family.   Diane captioned it: Cheers to the pride of our whole family! Ava, you'll always be irreplaceable.   I zoomed in on the photo and noticed a plate of blueberry muffins sitting at the corner.   When I was 4, Diane had baked an identical box of muffins before marrying Richard. She had shoved the box into my arms and told me to stay with my aunt, Claire Stone, for a few days. She promised she would come back for me soon.   Those few days became 13 years.   Ava learned violin, rode horses, and celebrated her birthdays at the Bennett estate. I grew up in Claire's old apartment, learning to swallow my tears, keep my questions to myself, and ask for nothing when Diane called from time to time.   After Claire died, Diane finally took the 17-year-old me back. Whenever Richard introduced me, he never called me his daughter. He only said, "The child from Diane's previous marriage."   The clinic had called Ava 12 times, but she hadn't picked up once. I called her myself, and she let it ring until the call dropped.   A few seconds later, she sent me a message.   Ava: Tonight is my night. Don't steal the spotlight with your petty problems. If it matters, wait until tomorrow.   I tucked the ultrasound report into my inner pocket, then picked up the folder containing Ava's diagnosis report.   I could've let Dr. Hayes keep trying to reach her. But when I saw that line in the group chat—"Ava, you'll always be irreplaceable"—I turned my phone off.   When I got back, Ava's favorite concerto was playing in the living room. She held a silver cake knife while Diane stood behind her, straightening her paper crown. The laughter around the table stopped when they saw me.   Diane frowned, then forced a smile. "Jess? Who told you we were here?"   As though I hadn't walked into my own home, but crashed a private party where I wasn't welcome.   Ava didn't lower the cake knife. "Jessica, if this is about your hospital shifts, mortgage, or the fact that you can't have a baby, could you pick another day? Not every occasion has to be about you."   Ethan snorted with laughter.   I pulled out my phone and started recording. "I was diagnosed with acute myeloid leukemia today."   The silver knife struck the porcelain plate with a sharp, jarring clink. The living room went silent for two seconds.   Diane instinctively stepped back, glancing at Richard, then at me.   "Noah's insurance can cover everything, right?" she asked. "Don't tell me you came back here to ask for money."