“I am going to ask you to leave this room now while I speak to Emily privately.”
Karen immediately protested.
“We are her parents.”
Dr. Lawson’s answer was immediate.
“Leave, or I will call security and social services this second.”
They left without hugging me, touching my shoulder, or telling me they loved me. Within hours, emergency custody paperwork had been signed, and the state temporarily became responsible for the child my parents had decided was too expensive to keep.
That first night in pediatric oncology, I lay beneath the hospital lights listening to machines beside my bed. I wasn’t thinking about whether cacer would kill me anymore; I was wondering whether my parents would secretly feel relieved if it did.
Then Laura Davidson entered my room.
She was a thirty-four-year-old night nurse with dark curly hair, blue scrubs, worn sneakers, and none of the artificial cheerfulness adults often used around frightened children. She checked my monitors before pulling a chair beside the bed.
“Hey there, Emily. I’m Laura. I’m going to be your night nurse.”
I turned toward the window.
