We stepped outside to talk.
“When she was a baby, doctors mentioned abnormal blood cells,” she explained. “They warned about possible leukemia. I was young and scared. If I told the agency, I thought no one would adopt her.”
My chest felt hollow.
“You kept it from them?” I asked.
She nodded. Then, almost casually, she added, “I think I deserve compensation for what I went through.”
The request stunned us. We refused.
She left frustrated and alone.
Inside, Hazel was waiting to open gifts, frosting still on her chin. I hugged her tightly, trying to steady my voice.
The next morning, we were at the pediatrician’s office.
Tests confirmed it: early-stage leukemia. Slow-moving. Highly treatable.
Hazel listened carefully. “Am I going to die?” she asked.
“No,” the doctor said gently. “We’re going to make you better.”
Read more on the next page ⬇️⬇️⬇️
