Brianna Sluski Facebook ad: “Their Perfect Daughter Is Dying, and I Have the Cure”

About this ad

Meta Ad Library ID

1568176414320959

Platforms

Facebook, Instagram, Audience Network and Threads

Relaunches

4

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Ad text

On the fifteenth of every month, Brielle and I had to switch houses. Eighteen years ago, a fertility clinic in Graybridge, Pennsylvania, made a mistake and implanted two embryos into the wrong wombs. I was born into the Calloway family, but genetically, I belonged to the Mercers. Brielle was born into the Mercer family, but she carried Calloway blood. The truth came out when we were eight, after a routine blood-typing test at school. The two families spent three years in court, with the local news following the story for months. In the end, a judge approved a shared-custody agreement: both girls would keep their original surnames and school records, switch homes on the fifteenth of every month, and have their living expenses split between both families. On paper, it was fair. In reality, I was always the awkward addition, the afterthought. Brielle had a south-facing bedroom in both houses, with matching bedding sets and an endless supply of snacks. When she went to dance intensives, replaced her pointe shoes, or needed physical therapy, the four adults split the bills down the middle and scrutinized every receipt. At the Calloways’, I slept in a partitioned-off storage room in the basement. At the Mercers’, I slept on a folding cot in Nolan’s game room. When it was my turn to move in, there was often a note on the fridge: *Heat up a frozen meal for yourself.* Three days after our eighteenth birthday, Brielle and I went to Cedar Pines Diagnostic Center for the final physical before our shared-custody agreement officially expired. She had to rush off that afternoon to a party celebrating her acceptance into a prestigious dance academy and kept rushing the nurse. The nurse set two manila folders on the front desk, explaining that some of the lab work still needed a doctor’s review, so we shouldn't draw any conclusions just yet. The full results would be uploaded to our patient portals that evening. When I went to the restroom, both folders were sitting in the waiting area. When I came back, Brielle was sliding one of them onto my seat. “Yours,” she said. She looked pale, and I figured she was just weak from the blood draw. Nolan was leaning in the doorway, his phone held sideways, the camera aimed in our direction. I asked what he was filming. He immediately lowered it and grinned. “Brielle’s acceptance day. Don’t make everything about you.” I didn’t ask again. Back at the Calloways’, I opened the folder. My name was on the outside. But on the first page inside, a bolded line jumped out at me: *Severe kidney dysfunction. Suspected end-stage renal disease. Immediate emergency evaluation required.* There were also preliminary tissue-typing results in the packet. Brielle and I were a strong match. Monica Calloway snatched the report from my hands. By the time she reached the second page, her face had gone white. Richard stood on the other side of the dining table. His first question wasn’t about whether I was in pain. His......

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Their Perfect Daughter Is Dying, and I Have the Cure