Counting the Cost
My biological father tore open the envelope. My biological mother leaned over his shoulder to look.
“Fifteen years ago, you walked out of Mercy General Hospital because you said my life wasn’t worth ruining your finances,” I said, my voice echoing slightly in the concrete corridor. “But my adoptive mother didn’t care about the cost. She took out a second mortgage. She worked double shifts. She paid for my medication, my therapy, my clothing, my food, and my housing. And when I got into medical school, she used the last of her savings to help me secure my loans.”
My biological father’s eyes widened as he scanned the first page. It wasn’t a medical bill. It was a legal accounting spreadsheet.
“Every penny she spent to keep me alive and put me through school has been meticulously documented,” I continued. “The principal, the interest on the second mortgage, the cost of living—everything. The total comes out to exactly four hundred and sixty-two thousand dollars.”
“You’re insane,” my biological mother gasped. “You can’t legally charge us for this!”
“I’m not charging you,” I replied smoothly. “But as you said, you want me back in the family. You want ‘reciprocity.’ You want a relationship with a high-earning physician. So, I have a proposition for you. If you want to be my parents, you have to buy back the rights. You will wire four hundred and sixty-two thousand dollars to my mother’s bank account by the end of the month to reimburse her for the investment she made—the one you refused.”
“And if we don’t?” my biological father sneered, his hands shaking as he crumbled the papers. “You’ll what? Cry to the media? Go ahead. No court in the world can force us to pay this.”
“I know,” I said, stepping closer until I was mere inches from his face. “I don’t need a court of law. Because I knew exactly what kind of people you were before I even sent those VIP tickets. I knew you wouldn’t come out of love. You came out of greed and social vanity.”
I looked over my shoulder. Walking around the corner of the corridor were three people. One was the Dean of the medical school. The other two were carrying heavy professional video cameras with the prominent logos of a major national news network. The red recording lights were blinking.
My biological mother let out a strangled shriek. My biological father froze, the blood completely draining from his face.
“You see,” I whispered, the smile returning to my face, “the media loves a good human-interest story about a valedictorian overcoming tragedy. They loved it even more when I told them my biological parents would be here today, attempting to extort their medical-doctor daughter for money after abandoning her with cancer fifteen years ago. They’ve been recording this entire conversation.”
The senior reporter stepped forward, microphone in hand. “Mr. and Mrs. Parker? I’m from NetNews Investigative Journalism. We have a few questions about the ward-of-the-state paperwork you signed in 2011, and the current financial demands you’re making on Dr. Hart.”
My biological father turned on his heel, looking for an escape route, but the exit doors at the end of the hall were pushed open. Two uniformed police officers stepped into the corridor, blocking the path.
One of the officers held up a legal document.
“Richard and Karen Parker?” the officer called out. “We have a warrant.”
My biological mother collapsed against the wall, clutching her chest. My biological father raised his hands in defense, his voice cracking. “A warrant? For what?! We haven’t broken any laws!”
The officer smiled grimly, stepping forward as the cameras zoomed in on my biological parents’ terrified faces.
“It’s not about what you did fifteen years ago,” the officer said. “It’s about what we found in your sister’s college fund account this morning.”
