The doorbell rang. It was a courier.
The delivery guy handed me a signed divorce agreement and a bag.
I asked, “What’s this?”
He stammered, “A guy asked me to give this to you. He said you’re old, got erectile dysfunction and keep picking fights 'cause you're bitter. He said he’s generous enough to not take it personally. He’s helping you please your wife, so you don’t have to thank him.”
Inside the bag were lubricant and a box of Viagra.
I calmly told the courier to throw away the things Henry had sent to provoke me. Then I closed the door.
I took out the divorce agreement and carefully signed my name.
My phone buzzed a few times—it was a message from the hospital’s HR director.
[Mr. Carter, maybe you should reconsider? It’s one thing to deal with others, but how can you send Miss Wells and Henry to Africa?]
[I understand you're grieving the loss of your children and upset with Miss Wells, but please don’t let personal grudges interfere with work. These dirty tactics won’t just ruin two brilliant doctors—they’ll cost countless patients their lives.]
I replied flatly. [You make a good point. I forgot to deal with you. You’re fired. A third-party firm will be taking over your role.]
Right after that, I called the external management company and gave direct orders.
“Take full control of HR and logistics at my hospital. Anyone who speaks up for Irene or Henry, send them all to Africa.”
“If they refuse to go, have them repay their training and development costs in full.”
I gently caressed the urns holding my children’s ashes, speaking each word with steady resolve.
All those doctors supporting Henry in the comment section were once underprivileged students whom I personally funded with real money.
It was I who gave them the opportunity to study abroad and become what they are today.
And yet now, one by one, they only knew how to flatter Irene and Henry. They’d completely forgotten who it was that nurtured them into the skilled doctors they became.
No wonder they all trailed after Irene without question. Every single one of them were blind, ungrateful wolves. And wolves like that made lousy doctors.
They had to suffer more hardships to learn what compassion in medicine really meant.
After hanging up, I noticed Irene had called me over a dozen times.
In the end—probably driven by fury— she even resent a friend request.
The message she attached. [Pick up the phone.]