My Daughter Needs Marrow, My Ex Said: Remarry Me and I'll Donate

The blood on the diagnosis was my five-year-old daughter Daisy Abbott's.

A minute ago she'd been leaning against me with a nosebleed, and when I wiped it with the back of my hand I smeared it across the page, one big red bloom spreading out, landing right over the second half of the words acute lymphoblastic leukemia.

The doctor sat across from me and pushed up his glasses, the plastic arms worn pale. "You need to prepare yourself," he said. "The cure rate for this isn't low, but it requires a marrow transplant. We've already run the typing on immediate family. You're only a half-match with your daughter, which carries too much risk. Your ex-husband, Robert Dickerson, is a full match. Right now he's the only best option we have."

The disposable paper cup crumpled in my hand with a small snap, ice water dripping down through my fingers, cold like the shards of the beer bottle he'd smashed into my face five years ago. That time I got seven stitches in my forehead, and the scar is still hidden down at my hairline. Run a finger over it and you can still feel the raised ridge. That day I bled more than Daisy bled today, and he stood there and didn't even hand me a tissue, just cursed at me. "Serves you right. Who told you to stick your nose in."

The tissue the doctor passed me I wrung into a shredded ball in my hand, unable to force out even half a sentence. The pain from five years ago and the pain right now blurred together until my throat closed up, until even my breathing carried the smell of blood. I met Robert when we were both working. I was nineteen then, just come out of my rural town, tightening screws on the assembly line at the electronics factory, on my feet twelve hours a day, my feet swollen fat as dinner rolls. He was the line supervisor, and every day he brought me a warm breakfast sandwich. On rainy days he gave me the only umbrella and ran back getting soaked himself. At Christmas he spent fifty bucks on a silver bracelet for me. I know now it was only silver-plated, that it turned black after half a month, but back then I thought I'd struck gold. Against my parents' objections, I secretly went and registered a marriage with him, no wedding, just a nine-dollar certificate, and we lived in a rented room barely bigger than a closet, no heat in winter, the two of us crammed onto one narrow bed, and I still felt so lucky, like I'd found the person I could lean on for the rest of my life.

Looking back now, I was stupid past belief, couldn't even tell a person from a dog. That silver-plated bracelet I later threw into the reeking gutter below the building during a fight with him, and as the blackened bracelet sank I still naively thought I could throw all the misery away with it.

The first time he hit me, I was two months pregnant. He'd lost two thousand dollars on a sports bet, and when he got home I said a few words too many. I told him, "We're going to have a baby soon. Can't you stop gambling?" He raised his hand and slapped me across the face, hard enough that my ear rang and I couldn't get back up for a long while, the corner of my mouth bleeding.

Then he knelt down and begged me to forgive him, slapping his own face until it swelled, saying he was wrong, that he'd never do it again, that he'd just lost his head for a moment. I laid a hand over the baby inside me, my heart softened, and I forgave him. Looking back now, I never should have. There are only zero times and countless times when it comes to a man hitting you. That saying is exactly right. Once there's a first time, there's a second, a third, and no end after that. That night I quietly took the twenty dollars I'd saved and went to the pharmacy to buy the morning-after pill. I sat downstairs for three hours clutching the box, the sweat in my palm soaking it soft, and in the end I threw the pill in the trash. I couldn't bear to give up the little life inside me. It was my first child. After that he hit me more and more often. He hit me when he drank. He hit me when he lost money. He even hit me when he came home sore from something his boss had said.

When I was seven months pregnant, he took up with the woman who ran the hair salon downstairs. I went to have it out with her, and right in front of her he kicked me in the belly, kicked me until I bled on the spot. I lay on the ground writhing in pain while he walked off with his arm around her, never once looking back, and said, "Better if she just dies. Saves the trouble."

It was Granny Chavez next door who heard the noise and got me to the hospital. The doctor said the baby had nearly been lost, that I should stay in bed or I'd very likely go into early labor.

I stayed in the hospital three days. He didn't so much as call, let alone come see me. When I was discharged I stood at the hospital entrance with a plastic bag of clothes to change into, the winter wind cutting my face like a knife, and right then I made up my mind: once the baby was born, I'd divorce him. Even if I had to beg on the street, I would raise my child.

Daisy was born weighing barely five pounds, wrinkled and small like a little monkey, without even the strength to cry.

I'd stayed up nights sewing her a little red tiger bib, the stitches crooked and clumsy. When I put it on her, her tiny hand grabbed at one of the tiger's ears and gave a small tug, and the tears just spilled out of me. I was in the hospital for two days. He came once, tossed down two hundred dollars, and left, saying he was going drinking with friends and I could figure out my own meals.

I carried the baby home from the hospital alone, back to the rented room, cold stove, cold pot, not even a warm meal waiting. I gnawed at a cold dinner roll with plain water, tears dripping onto it drop by drop until it went salty and bitter, and I gritted my teeth and swallowed it down and told myself I had to hold on, for my daughter.

When Daisy was six months old, I caught him in the act, in our bed, with that woman. He wasn't the least bit flustered when he saw me walk in. He just said, "If you can live with it, live with it. If you can't, get out. I'm the one paying rent on this place. What gives you the right to stay?"

I picked up Daisy and left, didn't even pack a bag, thirty-five dollars in my pocket. I rode the bus two hours to my friend Lily Morgan's place. That night I swore to myself that even if I had to beg on the street for the rest of my life, I would never come back to this home, never have anything to do with this man again. The divorce went smoothly.

He couldn't wait to be rid of me. No child to support, no property to split.

The day we went to sign the divorce papers, he showed up holding that woman's hand, making a point of parading past me. The woman looped her arm through his on purpose and smiled at me, smug. I didn't so much as glance at him. I signed and walked out. I didn't even take my copy of the papers, just dropped it straight in the trash can outside the county clerk's office. It made me sick.

Lily found me an apprentice job at a nail salon, room and board included, a thousand dollars a month. Every morning I got up at five to practice applying polish, practiced until my hands were covered in blisters and I couldn't even hold a pair of chopsticks. Three months later I'd finished my training and could take clients on my own. My boss said I was the hardest-working apprentice she'd ever seen.

I rented a little place next to the salon, ten square meters, and brought Daisy over. The two of us finally had a home of our own. Back then I thought that no matter how hard or how exhausting it got, it was worth it. As long as I had Daisy, I wasn't afraid of anything.

These five years wore me down, but I felt steady all the way through. I was up at four-thirty every morning to deliver milk, three hours of it, climbing dozens of buildings to earn fifty dollars. In winter my hands split open at the knuckles, and touching cold water made me shake with the pain, but I never dared take a day off, because a day off meant no money. Then at eight I clocked in at the nail salon and worked until eight at night, twelve hours on my feet, and when it got busy I sometimes didn't get to eat at all.

After I clocked out at eight, I still went to the night market to run a little stall selling trinkets, staying until midnight before heading home. Sometimes I ran into the city inspectors and had to grab my things and run a long way, running until my shoes came off, my feet rubbed raw and bleeding, and still I didn't dare stop. I left Daisy with my neighbor, Granny Chavez. She was a good woman, and knowing how hard things were for me, she only charged me five hundred a month to watch my child. She often made nice food for Daisy too, and whenever she braised pork ribs she'd set aside a bowl for her.

One time the inspectors chased me at the market, and as I ran with my bag stuffed full of trinkets, I took a fall, and one of the silver earrings my mother had given me came loose and dropped off. I went back and searched for two hours and never found it, and I crouched at the roadside and cried for a long time. That was the only thing my mother had left me.

Daisy was so understanding she never cried or fussed for things. When she saw other kids eating ice cream, she'd turn her head away and pretend she hadn't seen. When I asked if she wanted some, she'd shake her head and say, "Mommy works so hard for money. Daisy won't have any. Daisy's going to save up to buy Mommy a big house."

Last year I finally saved up enough to put a down payment on a small apartment, four hundred square feet. It was small, but it was our own place. On moving day Daisy clutched the stuffed rabbit I'd bought her and ran back and forth through the rooms, calling out as she ran, "Mommy, we finally have our own home. We never have to move again, and we never have to be scared of the landlady coming to throw us out." I leaned against the doorframe watching her, so happy, and the tears just spilled out of me. All those bitter years hadn't been for nothing.