Chapter 1

He Took No Leave For Her Hospital Stay; He Was With His Old Flame At Her Discharge

“Home from the hospital?” I stood at our front door, staring at the empty living room. No one was there.

My husband's mother had gone dancing. Our son was asleep in her room. Where was my husband?

I pulled out my phone and checked the call log. Over my seven‑day hospital stay, he had not come even once.

What was his excuse again? “Work keeps me tied up. You’re perfectly capable of taking care of yourself,” he said. I laughed.

I pulled up his leave records. He himself had told me I could access the company system from our home computer.

Four words glowed on the screen: [Care‑giving Leave.]

Seven days. He had taken seven full days of care‑giving leave. Zero days for me. Then for whom were those seven days?

*****

I shut my laptop. The door opened with a click. "Back already."

Michael Clark came in with the takeout. He saw me on the couch and froze for a second. "You came back on your own. I asked my mom to pick you up."

“She's out doing her group dance thing,” I said.

"Oh." He placed the takeout down. "Bet you're hungry. I brought oatmeal."

Oatmeal. A week in the hospital, and he never showed. My first meal out was takeout oatmeal. I left it untouched.

"What is it?" He took a seat beside me. "Are you feeling okay?"

"Not bad." I held his gaze. Three years of marriage, and I thought I had him figured out.

He was always working, always networking, always coming home late. I understood.

The year I gave birth, I spent eighteen hours alone in the delivery room. He said there was a big project at work. He couldn't get away.

I understood that too. This time, the surgery was for an ovarian cyst. It wasn't major, but I had to go under general anesthesia. I signed the consent form myself.

When I woke up after surgery, only my parents were in the room. He called and said the company was pushing hard for numbers, and he couldn't make it. "It's not like you can't move." His exact words.

I didn't say anything back then. The incision still hurt, and I didn't have the energy to argue. But today, "What have you been busy with these past two weeks?" I asked.

He paused for a moment. "Work stuff. Why?"

"Which project?" I asked.

His eyes flickered. "That new client project. You wouldn't get it."

I didn't get it. Three years. Every time, he said, "You wouldn't get it."

I nodded. "That sounds rough."

"It's okay." He stood up. "I'm going to take a shower."

He went into the bathroom. His phone was left on the couch. The screen lit up. A WhatsApp message. Emily, content: [How are you feeling today? Still in pain.]

I stared at the screen. Emily. Who was that? The shower was running. I picked up his phone.

It wasn't locked. I opened WhatsApp and found Emily. Her profile picture was a snowflake.

The chat history: [Home yet.]

[Made it.]

[Get some rest. Let me know if anything feels off.]

[Okay]

[I'll come see you again tomorrow.]

[It's okay. I'm discharged.]

Discharged. She was discharged. Today. The same day as me. I scrolled up.

[Don't worry. It's a minor procedure.]

[I'm not worried about you. I'm worried about myself. If something happened to you, what would I do?]

[Fool.]

Fool. The corner of my mouth twitched. I kept scrolling.

[You've had a rough two weeks.]

[It's no trouble. Being with you makes me happy.]

[What about your wife?]

[She's fine. Her surgery was minor. She didn't need anyone with her.]

Minor. Didn't need anyone. I pressed my head. Kept scrolling.

The earliest record was from three months ago. Over a thousand messages. Call logs: two hundred thirty-eight entries. I put the phone back where it was.

The bathroom door opened. "You're still here." He came out, drying his hair. "Aren't you going to go lie down?"

[Not tired.]

I looked at him. Three years. I thought he was a good man. Busy, but family-oriented. Tired, but loved me. Turns out he wasn't.

"Can you take the day off tomorrow to come with me to the follow-up?" I asked.

A flicker of hesitation crossed his face. "Tomorrow, there's a meeting."

"The day after."

"The day after won't work either."

"None of this week."

He scratched his head. "I can't get away lately. How about my mom goes with you?"

I laughed. Eleanor. Has your mom even come to see me once in the past seven days? "Forget it." I stood up. "I'll go myself."

"Honey."

"I'm going to check on Max." I walked into Eleanor's room.

My son was fast asleep in his crib. Two years old. His little cheeks were chubby, and he was smacking his lips even in his sleep. I crouched down by the bed and watched him.

Max. What did Mom give up for this family in these three years? When you were born, I was alone in the delivery room.

When I was recovering, it was my mom who took care of me. Your grandmother said her back was bad, and she couldn't look after anyone. But when it came to dancing, her back was finally perfect.

And your father. He said he was busy with work. I believed him. And now. He took seven days off. Not for me. For who. I don't know. But I'll find out.

From outside the door came Michael's voice. "Honey, the oatmeal's getting cold. Want me to heat it?"

No." I stood up. "I don't have an appetite."