I had just been discharged from the hospital after giving birth when my husband made me take the bus home while he secretly drove our Maybach to take his entire family out for hot pot. Two hours later, he went bankrupt, and the revelation of my identity terrified his entire family. The smell of antiseptic clung to my clothes as I sat on the edge of the hospital bed, my hands pressed gently against my lower abdomen where the C-section incision throbbed with each breath.
Five days had passed since they’d cut me open to bring my son into this world, and the wound still wept and burned with every movement. Around me, the maternity ward hummed with life and warmth. Other new mothers were being tenderly supported by their husbands, fed spoonfuls of nourishing soup by doting mothers-in-law, the rooms filled with cheerful chatter about nurseries and first words and tiny fingers.
But I sat alone with a shabby duffel bag at my feet and my son sleeping soundly in his plastic bassinet, wrapped in the standard-issue hospital blanket. Ethan, my husband, the man I’d abandoned my privileged life for, stood across the room leaning against the window frame. He didn’t look at me once.
His fingers flew frantically across his phone screen as he muttered numbers from some project he was always boasting about—a multi-million dollar deal that would finally put us on top. “Are you done yet? You’re so slow,” Ethan snapped, his eyes still glued to the screen.
“The doctor signed your discharge papers half an hour ago. Who are you trying to guilt trip by just sitting there?”
I bit my lip, trying to suppress the searing pain radiating from my incision, and struggled to my feet. The heavy duffel bag on my shoulder made me sway dangerously.
I looked at him, my eyes pleading for the smallest gesture of care. “Ethan, my incision still hurts so much. Could you please carry the bag for me?
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
Tap READ MORE to discover the rest 🔎👇
