Inherited Shadows

I was twenty-four when I found out my family had a genetic time bomb.

I was in the hospital for a routine checkup, and I remember the doctor saying, "Your father has a rare disease."

I didn’t know what it was called at the time, but I knew it was serious.

The doctor said it was hereditary, and that I had a fifty percent chance of getting it.

He suggested that my father and I get tested to see if we were carriers of the gene.

If we were, then my mother and brother would have to be tested as well.

But my father refused.

He said he didn’t want to know, and that he didn’t want to put me through that either.

My mother agreed with him, and so did my brother.

I sat in the sterile hospital room, my heart pounding in my chest.

The walls were a stark white, and the smell of antiseptic filled the air.

Dr. Harris looked at me with a mixture of sympathy and urgency.

"Emily, this disease is called Huntington's," he said, his voice steady but gentle.

"It's a genetic disorder that causes the progressive breakdown of nerve cells in the brain."

I glanced at my father, John, who stood stoically beside me.

His face was unreadable, a mask of calm that I knew hid a storm of emotions.

"We need to do genetic testing to determine if you or your father are carriers," Dr. Harris continued.

My father’s eyes hardened.

"No," he said firmly.

"I don’t want to know."

"But Dad," I started, my voice trembling.

"What if we have it? What if Michael has it?"

Michael, my younger brother, leaned against the wall, his arms crossed nonchalantly.

He shrugged.

"Whatever happens, happens," he said dismissively.

My mother, Sarah, stood by the window, her hands wringing together.

She looked torn, her eyes darting between my father and me.

"John," she said softly.

"Maybe we should consider it."

"No," my father repeated, his voice like steel.

"I won’t put Emily through that."

I felt a wave of frustration and fear crash over me.

"Don’t I get a say in this?" I demanded, my voice rising.

My father turned to me, his expression softening slightly.

"I’m trying to protect you," he said quietly.

"But what if knowing could help us?" I argued.

"What if there’s something we can do?"

Dr. Harris cleared his throat.

"There are treatments that can help manage symptoms," he said carefully.

"But early detection is crucial."

My father shook his head.

"I’ve made my decision," he said firmly.

I looked at my mother, hoping for support.

She sighed deeply and nodded in agreement with my father.

"I think your dad is right," she said reluctantly.

I felt a lump form in my throat as tears threatened to spill over.

"Fine," I muttered, standing up abruptly.

"Let’s just leave then."

The tension in the room was palpable as we walked out of the hospital.

Each step felt heavy with unspoken fears and uncertainties.

As we reached the parking lot, I turned to my family.

"This isn’t over," I said defiantly.

"I’m going to find out the truth."

My father’s face darkened.

"You will do no such thing," he warned.

I clenched my fists, feeling a surge of determination.

"We’ll see about that," I replied before walking away from them.

I didn’t know where I was going or what I was going to do next.

My mind raced with a thousand thoughts, each one more terrifying than the last.

I needed answers, and I needed them now.

Taking a deep breath, I pulled out my phone and searched for a genetic counselor online.

After scrolling through several options, I found one that seemed reputable—Dr. Lisa Morgan.

With trembling fingers, I dialed the number.

The phone rang once, twice, three times.

My heart pounded in my chest like a drum.