Three short years as Mrs. Sanchez.
I had already burned through every penny I'd saved from my entire working life. My account didn't even have a hundred dollars left.
Where was I supposed to find eight hundred eighty thousand to give Cyril?
The baby in my arms had cried herself hoarse from the fever, her little face scrunched in misery.
I turned pleading eyes to the guard, my voice sinking into the dirt with humiliation.
"I'll find a way to pay it back."
"Please, just this once—let us through. She's premature. She's already in danger being out of the incubator. If this fever keeps climbing, she'll die..."
Three days ago, Ruth's appendicitis had flared up.
The doctor scheduled surgery for three months out—the exact same window as my due date.
Ruth had dissolved into sobs.
"If my surgery happens while she's in labor, you'll abandon me to take care of her, won't you?"
Cyril tried to comfort her.
But Ruth only cried harder.
"You've changed! The old you would never have let me get appendicitis in the first place! Now that you have her, you don't love me anymore—your whole heart belongs to her now! I'm going to tell Mom and Dad in heaven that you're bullying me!"