Disowned

Inside the book Opening excerpt

I clutched my ragged stuffed rabbit and shook my head with all the solemnity a four-year-old could muster. "No."

They laughed, ruffling my hair as if my words were meaningless. A year later, they returned with a plump baby boy—my "playmate," my "protector," my so-called safety net.

But adulthood never came. When Dick developed leukemia, I was strapped to cold steel tables as needles plunged into my bones. When his kidneys failed, my mother signed the consent form for my "voluntary" donation—ignoring my pleas about my blood disorder.

I bled to death on that table.

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