My adopted sister and I were both dying of cancer, but when my husband was asked to help decide who would receive the only available place in a promising clinical trial, he chose her. He didn’t tell me himself. I learned it from a hospital coordinator who looked at my chart, went quiet, and asked whether I understood that my application had been withdrawn.

Chapter 1

I was twenty-nine years old. My name was Cora Foster, and until that Monday morning, I had still believed my husband loved me.

“There’s been a mistake,” I told the coordinator.

She turned her computer screen slightly away. “Mrs. Foster, your husband submitted a request to prioritize Serena’s treatment. The research team is reviewing the circumstances, but your place can’t be held indefinitely.”

My husband, Ethan, was a surgeon at the same hospital. He knew how sick I was, or at least he had access to everything he needed to know. For weeks, he’d dismissed my pain as exhaustion and accused me of making my sister’s diagnosis about myself.

“Serena needs people around her who aren’t constantly competing with her,” he’d said.

Now I understood what that meant.

The doctor assigned to my case explained that the experimental treatment offered a small possibility of extending my life. It wasn’t a cure, and no one could promise it would work. Without treatment, however, my cancer was progressing rapidly.

I sat in the consultation room looking at a photograph of a lighthouse hanging above the sink.

“Does Serena qualify?” I asked.

“Her case is different. The research team has concerns about whether this particular treatment would benefit her.”

I looked down at the wedding ring on my hand.

Ethan had apparently made his choice without asking either of us what the doctors recommended.

That afternoon, I went to Serena’s hospital room.

My father was peeling an orange for her. My mother sat beside the bed, rubbing lotion into Serena’s hands.

They were smiling when I opened the door.

The smiles disappeared immediately.

“Cora,” my father said. “What now?”

“I came to see how Serena was doing.”

My mother gave a tired sigh. “Please don’t upset her today. She’s had a difficult morning.”

Serena lay against a stack of pillows, her blond hair neatly arranged around her shoulders.

She was twenty-eight, a year younger than me. My parents had adopted her as a teenager after I begged them to help a girl I’d met through a church outreach program.

Back then, Serena had seemed shy and grateful.

Now she looked at me with a little smile that vanished whenever someone else turned toward her.

“Dad,” I said, “I wanted to talk about the company.”

My father set down the orange.

“Good. Serena has some ideas, and frankly, she understands the luxury market better than you do.”

I owned three women’s clothing boutiques and a small design studio in Manhattan. I’d built them myself, beginning with alterations and custom dresses while Ethan finished medical school.

Serena had never worked in the business.

But for years, my parents had urged me to give her a controlling interest.

I had always refused.

“I’ve decided she can have it,” I said.

My mother stared at me.

“What?”

“The boutiques. The design company. I’ll have the attorney prepare the transfer documents.”

Serena sat straighter.

“Are you serious?”

I nodded.

My father looked delighted.

“Well, thank goodness. It’s about time you stopped fighting your sister.”

Mother came over and kissed my forehead.

“There’s our sweet girl. I knew you’d come around.”

I couldn’t remember the last time she’d kissed me.

That evening, I returned to our townhouse to find Ethan cooking.

Our six-year-old daughter, Chloe, stood beside him on a stool, helping sprinkle cheese over a pan of pasta.

“Careful, sweetheart,” Ethan told her. “Serena likes plenty of Parmesan.”

I stopped in the doorway.

The kitchen smelled wonderful.

For years, Ethan had complained about my cooking. He said my chicken was dry, my vegetables bland, and my pasta overdone.

I hadn’t known he could cook so well.

When he noticed me, his smile disappeared.

“Oh. You’re home.”

“Looks good,” I said.

“It’s for Serena. I thought we’d take it to the hospital.”

Chloe grinned.

“Mama Serena says Daddy makes the best pasta.”

I set my purse on the counter.

“That’s nice, honey.”

Ethan wiped his hands on a towel.

“Cora, we need to talk.”

I knew before he said another word.

“Your parents think Serena needs emotional stability while she’s going through treatment,” he began. “She’s frightened, and she’s been leaning on me.”

I waited.

“They suggested that we divorce temporarily. I could marry Serena, help her through this, and then, once she’s better, we could figure things out.”

I stared at him.

“You want to divorce me so you can marry my sister?”

“Don’t make it sound ugly. It’s a compassionate arrangement.”

“And after she gets better?”

“We can remarry.”

Chloe tugged at my sweater.

“Mommy, Mama Serena would be so happy. Can we do it?”

I looked at my daughter.

She was only six. She was repeating what the adults around her had taught her to believe.

Still, hearing those words hurt in a place no medical treatment could reach.

“Is that what you want?” I asked softly.

She nodded enthusiastically.

“Then Mama Serena can live with us all the time!”

Ethan opened a drawer and took out a folder.

The divorce papers were already prepared.

I looked at the folder, then at the man I’d loved for nearly ten years.

“All right,” I said.

He blinked.

“Really?”

“Yes.”

He slid the papers across the counter.

I signed where he’d marked the pages.

He let out a long breath.

“Thank you, Cora. I knew you’d eventually understand.”

Then he smiled.

“You’re finally being reasonable.”

I went upstairs without answering.

Inside our bedroom, I removed my wedding ring and placed it in its velvet box.

Beside it, I left a note.

I hope you find the happiness you were looking for.

Then I sat on the edge of the bed until the room grew dark.

My phone rang.

It was the hospital coordinator.

“Mrs. Foster, I’m sorry to call so late. The research physician asked me to contact you directly.”

I gripped the phone.

“Has something changed?”

“Your husband’s request has raised serious concerns. The treatment under consideration was developed for a particular tumor marker found in your biopsy. Serena doesn’t have that marker.”

I closed my eyes.

“Then why would Ethan give her my place?”

The coordinator hesitated.

“That’s something the hospital will need to investigate.”

After the call ended, I stared at the wedding ring.

Ethan hadn’t simply chosen Serena over me.

He had tried to give her the one treatment that might help me survive, even though it wasn’t intended for her.

And he had never bothered to tell me I was dying.