PART 1
“The one who truly saved your father was your sister,” my mother toasted in front of twenty-two relatives, while the scar on my left side stung beneath a cheap dress.
It was late November, exactly nine weeks after I had a kidney removed for a transplant for my father. We were in an elegant ballroom in San Pedro Garza García, with crystal glasses, expensive wine, and a table as long as the distance that had always existed between my family and me.
“To Paola,” my mother, Teresa, said, raising her glass. “To her campaign, to her dedication, to not giving up until she saved her father’s life.”
Everyone applauded. Everyone smiled. No one looked at me.
I’m Valeria Sánchez, I’m thirty-one years old, and I work for an organization that helps young people get scholarships. I live in a small apartment, and after the surgery, I ended up with debts I still didn’t know how to pay. In my family, I was always the invisible daughter. Paola, my older sister, was the opposite: the perfect daughter, the spoiled one, the executive at my dad’s company.
That’s why I had stopped going to family gatherings. But in July, my dad collapsed at the company’s anniversary celebration, and everything changed. I hadn’t even been invited. I found out from a cousin: “Your dad’s in the ER.”
I arrived at the hospital still in sweatpants. My mom barely saw me before blurting out, “It’s his kidneys. If he doesn’t get a transplant soon, it’s over.”
When I went into the room, my dad was covered in tubes. He took my hand and said something that broke my heart: “Your mom said you didn’t want to get involved.”
The next day, I had the tests done. A week later, they called me: I was an almost perfect match.
When I announced it, Paola pretended she was just about to start her own tests. My mom didn’t even try to hide her disdain. “Valeria can’t handle anything difficult. She’s going to back out,” she said in front of everyone.
I didn’t back down.
I prepared myself. While I was signing papers and getting ready for surgery, Paola was launching a public campaign about “kidney health,” plastering her face everywhere. On the day of the surgery, my mom wished me luck while glancing at the clock, and Paola said, “How brave,” without letting go of her phone.
I woke up in excruciating pain, alone. A nurse whispered to me, “Your mom and sister know you’re awake. They’ve been with your dad for hours.”
That morning, my dad appeared in a wheelchair by my bedside, crying. He squeezed my hand and whispered, “I see you, Vale. And I swear I’m going to fix this.”
I believed him.
But nine weeks later, at that dinner, my mom had just given my sacrifice to Paola in front of everyone.
I got up to leave. Then my dad held my wrist under the table and slipped a folded napkin into my lap.
I couldn’t believe what was about to happen.
