Chapter 1
The day I found out I was pregnant with triplets, I sat on a plastic chair in the corridor of a community hospital, calculating the cost of baby formula.
An email notification popped up on my phone.
It was from Randal Morales.
The body held only one sentence: [The agreement has expired, the 21 million dollars have been settled in full, and you have to move out before the end of the month.]
I stared at it for three seconds.
Then I opened the reply and typed word-for-word: [Got it. No need to wait until the month's end. I'll leave tomorrow. I've already made an appointment with the notary.]
21 million dollars. 7 million dollars for each of the three children. That was enough.
The day I signed the papers, I walked out the door of the Morales' residence with my backpack, the sun shining brightly outside.
Later, word spread across the entire medical community that Randal from Morales Medical Center had combed through surveillance footage across half the city.
He did all this to track down his ex-wife, who had taken the 21 million dollars and vanished without a trace.
*****
There were about seven or eight people waiting outside the ultrasound room at the community hospital. I was the last patient on the list.
When the cold ultrasound probe pressed against my belly, I flinched and sucked in my stomach instinctively.
The doctor stared at the screen, her expression shifting from normal to puzzled, then to outright shocked.
She moved the probe around several times, rechecking.
"Did you get pregnant naturally?" she asked.
"Yeah," I replied.
She took off her glasses, wiped them, put them back on, and checked the screen again.
"Three gestational sacs, all with heartbeats," she said.
My head buzzed.
I was carrying triplets.
My legs felt weak as I walked out of the ultrasound room.
I sat down on a plastic chair in the hallway, pulled out my phone, and opened the calculator.
Baby formula would cost 600 dollars a month for one kid and 1800 dollars for three.
Diapers would cost 300 dollars a month per child, so 900 dollars for three.
Then there would be prenatal checkup fees, nutritional supplements, daycare costs down the line, and more.
The numbers kept getting bigger and bigger.
I closed the calculator and stared blankly at the ceiling for a moment.
A new email popped up at the top of my phone screen.
It was from Randal.
I froze for a second.
Randal was the man I had found through the matchmaking agency, my contractual husband.
He never emailed me.
If he had something to say, he'd either tell his assistant to relay the message or stick a note on the kitchen counter.
I opened the email.
The subject was termination of agreement.
The body was short: [Mrs. Morales, after consideration, the agreement is terminated early. Attached are the termination agreement and property settlement plan.
[Settlement amount: 21 million dollars. Please move out by the end of the month. If you have any objections, contact Mr. Stephens. Randal.]
21 million dollars?
I gripped my phone, goosebumps prickling across my skin.
It wasn't because I was cold.
It was pure joy.
I opened the reply box, my fingers steady.
I typed: [Hi, Mr. Morales. Got your message. I'll take care of the notary. No need to wait till the end of the month. Are you free tomorrow? We can wrap it up then.]
I hit send.
I set my phone down on my knee and stared at the dirty window at the end of the hallway, a smile spreading across my face.
I was carrying triplets.
And I would get 21 million dollars.
I looked down, touched my stomach, and lowered my voice so only I could hear.
"7 million dollars each. You three won't ever have to worry about a thing," I whispered.
*****
The next morning, I was at the notary's office.
I picked the place as far from the Morales family's residence as possible, on the third floor of an old office building on the east side of town.
Randal didn't show up.
Instead, his personal lawyer, Orville Stephens, came.
He was dressed in a gray suit, wearing black-rimmed glasses, and carrying a file folder under his arm.
"Mrs. Morales, here are the termination agreement and settlement details. Please review them. Mr. Morales has given me full authority to represent him," Orville said.
I took the documents and went straight to the last page.
The section for the first party was stamped with the law firm's seal, and there was a power of attorney right beside it.
I picked up the pen from the table and signed my name in the second party's section.
Orville's gaze shifted behind his glasses.
"Mrs. Morales, would you like to look over the terms? There are some details about what happens next," he said.
"No need. As long as the 21 million dollars is paid, that's all that matters," I replied.
I slid the agreement back to him.
He started to say something but stayed silent.
He probably had everything planned out for today.
What if I cried? What if I made a scene? What if I asked to see Randal? Things like that.
None of it came into play at all.
Stepping out of the office building, I found it was drizzling.
I popped open my umbrella and took a deep breath.
I chose to go back to the Morales' residence at noon to pack up my things.
Randal's mother, Eloise Morales, was at the beauty salon; Randal's sister, Callie Morales, was at school; and the housekeeper was napping in the kitchen.
No one even noticed me.
I didn't have much stuff.
Everything fit into my backpack.
The right side of the closet in the spare bedroom was mine: just a few seasonal clothes, two books, and a toiletries bag.
The door to the master bedroom next door was half-open. I hadn't set foot in there for a whole year.
Before leaving, I glanced at the nightstand.
There was a bottle of stomach medicine sitting on it.
Randal had a weak stomach. After pulling long shifts in surgery, he'd chug coffee to keep himself going.
One night, I got up for some water and heard a faint sound from his room.
The door wasn't fully closed. Through the gap, I saw him sitting on the edge of the bed, hunched over, one hand on his knee, his face pale.
The next day, I bought a bottle of stomach medicine and left it outside his bedroom door.
After that, whenever it was running low, I'd quietly swap it out for a new one.
He probably assumed the housekeeper bought it.
I picked it up and took a look. There was about a third left.
I put it back.
This was the last one.
Once he finished this, there'd be no more.
I left my ID badge and spare key on the entryway shoe cabinet without a note.
The door closed softly behind me.
I walked out of the neighborhood with my bag on my back.
The subway station was about 300 yards away, and I walked at a steady pace.
When I swiped my card to get through, the turnstile beeped and a green light lit up.
I suddenly thought the sound was nice, like the tone that plays when I beat a video game level.