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!”