'No,' she says. 'You don't understand. ' she takes a deep breath. 'Rosie you don't have the disease.'
'Sarah,' I say gently, as if to a child. 'There's a fifty percent chance that I do - it's a genetic fact.'
'That's what I mean.' Sarah says slowly, not looking at me. 'There is no chance.'
'I---' I blink. 'I don't understand...'
'Rosie...' she sighs, rubs her hand over her brow. 'Oh, God!' I don't move. Don't breathe.
'Rosie, you don't have the disease- you can't possibly, because---' Her eyes meet mine at last and I flick mine away.
There's a red stain on the carpet by the door, where mum spilled red wine as she was handing it round one New Years Eve. She'd said she was just a bit tipsy, but I knew she hadn't had a drop to drink all night.
Now it looks like blood.
'Rosie, I've wanted to tell you for such a long time, especially with Trudie getting worse and worse - to put your mind at rest, give you one less thing to worry about, and because you deserved -deserve- to know. But I couldn't while she was alive, don't you see? You were everything to her.'
I start tugging at my sweater. It's hot again. Insufferably hot.
'God, this is awful! I'm so sorry, sweetie - this isn't how I wanted to tell you at all. But if you take the test they might compare your DNA, and I just ... I didn't want you to find out from someone else. I had to tell you - to explain...' she trails off. 'Rosie?'
I blink hard, trying to concentrate, focus.
She sighs. 'Rosie, you had to know - you have to know - because it's the only way you can move on with your life - your own long and healthy life!'

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