Chương 7
Karen opened the folder.
And the first page answered the question before she said anything.
My name was at the top.
Below it was a section I had never read.
A section that explained why my father had been so determined to have my signature before the surgery.
Because the transplant was not the only thing he wanted from me.
The document was titled Family Residence Transfer and Support Agreement.
I stared at the words.
"Transfer?"
Karen nodded slowly.
"It appears your father prepared this before your surgery."
I looked down the page.
The language was complicated.
The kind of language that made ordinary people feel embarrassed for not understanding it.
I hated that I recognized the feeling.
My father loved documents like this.
He loved situations where he knew more than everyone else.
He always said knowledge was responsibility.
But somehow, whenever he had knowledge, it became power.
"What does it mean?" I asked.
Karen pulled the chair closer.
"Some of it is straightforward."
She pointed to the first section.
"You agreed that if you continued residing in the family home after the transplant, you would contribute a percentage of future income toward household expenses."
I frowned.
"I already paid bills."
"I know."
She turned the page.
"This is different."
I read the paragraph again.
The wording was careful.
Professional.
Cold.
It described me as a dependent adult receiving family assistance.
I felt my face grow warm.
"I wasn't dependent."
Karen did not argue.
That almost made me angrier.
"I worked since I was sixteen."
"I know."
"I paid for groceries."
"I know."
"I paid part of the mortgage."
Karen looked at the document.
"According to this agreement, those payments were considered voluntary contributions."
My hands went numb.
Voluntary.
Another word that sounded harmless until it was used against you.
All those years.
All those payments.
All those nights I stayed late at work and came home exhausted because I was helping keep the house running.
They had not seen me as contributing.
They had seen me as someone who should be grateful for being allowed to contribute.
I turned another page.
Then I stopped.
There was a section about ownership.
Not the house.
Something else.
My savings account.
I looked at Karen.
"What is this?"
Her expression changed.
"The agreement states that any medical expenses related to the transplant would be considered an investment by your family."
I stared.
"An investment?"
"Yes."
"And?"
She hesitated.
"And it includes repayment language."
I felt a strange pressure behind my eyes.
"Repayment from what?"
Karen did not answer immediately.
She did not need to.
The page was right there.
I read the sentence slowly.
"Upon any future sale, inheritance, or financial settlement involving the donor..."
I stopped.
There was more.
I did not need to finish.
Because I understood.
My father had not only planned to remove me from the house.
He had planned to make sure I had less ability to fight back.
The surgery had been presented as love.
But the paperwork treated it like a transaction.
A transaction where my body was the first contribution.
My money was the second.
My future was collateral.
I put the document down.
"I didn't agree to this."
Karen looked at me carefully.
"You signed it."
The words hurt.
Not because she was blaming me.
Because she was right.
I signed it.
My name was there.
My handwriting.
My mistake.
I covered my face with both hands.
For a moment, I could not breathe.
Not because of the surgery.
Because I suddenly remembered every time my father had told me to trust him.
Every time I had ignored my own discomfort because questioning him felt like betrayal.
The worst part was that he had counted on that.
He knew I would not read closely.
He knew I wanted to believe him.
He knew exactly which part of me to use.
Karen waited.
She did not interrupt.
Eventually, I lowered my hands.
"What happens now?"
She looked at the folder.
"Now we determine whether the agreement was valid."
"Because I was pressured?"
"Possibly."
"Because I didn't understand it?"
"Possibly."
She paused.
"But there is something else."
I looked at her.
"What?"
"The hospital has records from your donor evaluation."
My stomach tightened.
"More notes?"
"Yes."
She opened another section.
"There were concerns about your emotional state before surgery."
I almost laughed.
"Everyone keeps saying that."
"Because the records support it."
I looked at her.
"What does that mean?"
Karen turned the tablet toward me.
There was a note from the transplant psychologist.
The date was two days before surgery.
The words were short.
"Patient demonstrates strong desire for familial acceptance and expresses fear that refusal will permanently damage relationship with father."
I read it silently.
Then I read it again.
Because seeing my own emotions written by someone else felt strange.
Like looking at a photograph of a person I recognized but did not know.
Below that was another sentence.
"Patient states she believes donation may prove her value within family system."
My chest tightened.
I hated that sentence.
Not because it was wrong.
Because it was true.
I had spent my whole life trying to prove I deserved to be there.
And my father had found the exact moment when that weakness could become useful.
The door opened.
Alyssa stood there.
Her face looked exhausted.
She was not wearing makeup.
Her hair was messy.
For once, she looked like someone who had not prepared herself to be seen.
Karen stood.
"I can give you privacy."
"No," I said.
The word surprised all of us.
I looked at Alyssa.
"I want her here."
Alyssa swallowed.
She entered slowly.
"I know you probably hate me."
I looked at her.
"I don't know what I feel."
That answer seemed to hurt her more than anger would have.
She nodded.
"Fair."
She sat down.
For several seconds, neither of us spoke.
We had spent years talking about ordinary things.
Movies.
Food.
Work.
May you like
Small family arguments.
But we had never talked about the one thing sitting between us.
