My mum held true to her promise, scheduling me a coveted spot with an Italian genetic counselor who could expedite my tests. Mum isn’t one to throw money at people, but she’d do about anything to get me tested quickly before I chickened out. I had the blood withdrawal done on Monday. By Thursday, I had the results.
My parents and I sit together in the doctor’s office. I scan the doctor’s facial features, hoping for a smile or a sigh of relief. His face reveals nothing as he reads the document in front of him.
Mum and Dad each grab one of my trembling hands. I let them care for me, anxiety making it difficult for me to breathe right.
The doctor looks up at us, and he opens his mouth.
It takes one word to change someone’s life.
Only one word to destroy all the hope I’ve built with Elena.
Eight letters. Three syllables. One meaning.
Positive.
