My daughter. Two words I had not been allowed to claim out loud for seven hundred and thirty-two days. The room seemed to tilt beneath me.
“What happened?” I asked, and my voice came out steadier than I felt. “Is she hurt?”
“Sophie was admitted to our emergency department early this morning. Her white blood cell count is critically low, twelve hundred cells per microliter. Normal range is between forty-five hundred and ten thousand. We’re running additional tests, but we suspect acute myeloid leukemia.”
The blueprints blurred. Leukemia. My ten-year-old daughter had cancer.
“I need you to come to Seattle immediately,” Dr. Whitman continued. “Sophie needs a bone marrow transplant, and we need to test you as a potential donor. Time is critical.”
“I’m in Portland,” I said, already standing, already grabbing my keys. “I can be there in three hours.”
“Good. Ask for me at the pediatric oncology unit when you arrive.” Then she paused, and her voice softened. “And Ms. Hayes, I know the custody situation is complicated, but right now Sophie needs her mother.”
I hung up and stood motionless for one stunned second, staring at the Morrison Tower plans spread across my desk. Six months of work. A 2.8 million dollar contract that could save my struggling architecture firm. My business partner, Marcus, had scheduled the presentation for nine sharp. The clients were already flying in from San Francisco. I called him as I ran for the door.
