My Parents Priced My Death

There's a whiteboard in our house.

It tracks my countdown.

"Days until Memoria's estimated heart failure: 47 days."

Every morning, Mom carefully erases yesterday's number and writes the new one.

Just like a supermarket sale countdown.

Precise, cold, full of anticipation.

My name is Memoria. I'm twelve years old.

Congenital heart disease. The doctor said without surgery, I won't live past six months.

The surgery costs three million dollars.

My dad, Richard Monroe, is worth two billion.

But he said: "Three million. Not worth it."

Because there's another healthy child in the family.