By the time I got to my mother’s house, my child’s face was flushed red from the fever. His cries had grown faint, weaker than I’d ever heard before.
“Why are you the only one here? Where’s Willette?” my mom asked as she held Tad tightly.
“She had something to do.”
Quickly, we rushed to the hospital. After checking him over, the doctor’s expression turned grave.
“The fever’s been going on too long. We’ll need to transfer him to the ICU for observation.”
My mom’s eyes welled with anger. “What on earth could be more important than her own child? She always seemed like such a good wife and mother, but now—”
“Mom.” I cut her off, my voice sharp. “She’s cheating.”
She froze, her mouth opening but no words coming out.
Right then, my phone buzzed again.
It was a text from an unknown number, with a picture attached.
[Burned my hand a little while cooking. But she was already so worried that she rushed over right away to take care of me.]
The photo showed a tiny red spot on a man’s hand, barely the size of a sesame seed. And next to him was Willette, carefully applying ointment, her face full of concern.
I stared at it, and suddenly, I almost laughed.
How ridiculous. To her, even a scratch on his hand mattered more than me and our sick child combined.
Cautious, my mom spoke softly, “Son, what are you going to do?”
“I'm gonna divorce her.”
The next morning, sometime after ten, Willette finally showed up at the hospital room.
She strolled in, yawning, and plopped down in the chair across from me.
“I worked late last night to clear my schedule. Today I can finally focus on staying with our son,” she said, reaching out to touch Tad’s flushed cheek.
“Alright,” I replied flatly.
“You must be exhausted, too. Why don’t you go home and rest? I’ll stay here and watch him,” she offered, her voice soft and caring.
I nodded. “Fine. I’ll head home for a bit.”
But I had barely been back for half an hour when my phone rang.
It was the hospital.
“Where are you, family members?” the nurse snapped, clearly frustrated. “The child’s been awake and crying nonstop, and there’s not a single adult in the room with him!”
My heart sank, and I rushed back to the hospital.
When I got there, the room was empty. Willette was gone.
I called her phone again and again, but she wasn't answering.
As I was pacing in panic, a live-stream notification popped up on my screen.
I tapped it without thinking.