I was the son to two fairly unassuming Jewish parents, whereas she was the daughter of an American woman and a Chinese second-generation immigrant who had both decided to move to Canada for work shortly before having Milana (at the time, they presumably did not realise how good of a financial decision that was, given their daughter’s significant health complications just beyond the horizon). Both born in the year 2000, we had grown up next-door neighbours in a leafy yet under-developed suburb of Toronto, both only children of middle-income families-though hers being somewhat on the poorer end than mine, it should be said. We had known each other for about as long as it was possible for two kids to know each other, almost as long as we had known our own parents. Milana may have just been the sick girl to everyone else, but to me, she was my best friend. All anyone in the neighbourhood knew was that, yes, Milana Mei? She’s that girl with all of the medical problems, right? And that’s how she remained: the sick girl. To most people, acquaintances and such, there was really nothing else of relevance to note about Milana. She was just a sickly girl, that was who she was. Artwork by For about as long as I’d known her, Milana Mei had been sick.
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