She Chose Her Rich Client Over Our Sick Son

1: 1

The baby was eight months old the first time I asked my wife, Joyce James, for money.

A small fan on sale, fifty-nine ninety-nine.

A pack of manual razor blades, nine ninety-nine.

I looked at the balance in my account and explained in a low voice.

The blades last a long time. It averages out to less than a dollar a month.

"It's hot lately. A cheap fan for the kitchen would do."

"Could you pay for it? Once the baby's older and I'm working again, I'll pay you back."

Joyce scrolled through her social media without looking up.

"If you're hot, deal with it. You don't have a job. Who are you dressing up for anyway?"

My hand stopped. I turned my head and caught her phone screen.

It was a post Duane Gilbert had just put up.

A luxury-brand watch, and Joyce mid-swipe, paying for it.

Back when Joyce's startup failed, I cut every corner I could to save her money.

I hadn't bought new clothes in three years, and I trimmed the everyday spending down to nothing.

At the worst of it, I stayed up all night holding the baby, and I still refused to add the smallest burden to her.

I thought that if we just pulled together, we could get through it.

But in the end, she was still living well.

And I was the only one who'd become a clown who couldn't even afford ten dollars of razor blades.

1.

I stared at the photo for a long time.

"This watch. You bought it for Duane Gilbert?"

Joyce's hand hung in midair.

"You went through my phone?"

"The watch is over twenty thousand. That's half a year of living expenses for this whole family."

Joyce was quiet for a few seconds, then her tone went cold.

"Duane brought an important client to the company. The gift was to keep the relationship solid."

"Do you even understand how business works? All you can do is fixate on this little bit of money."

After the company's funding collapsed, every expense at home had to be counted to the cent.

Formula couldn't run over two hundred, and diapers were rationed by the piece.

This little bit of money she talked about would keep the baby in formula for a long time.

It would keep me in razor blades for the rest of my life.

"If this is only work, then why would he post something like that?"

I pointed at the line under Duane's post. It felt good to be someone's priority.

"I'm going to ask him whether this is a client gift or a personal one."

I pushed the cart toward the elevator.

Joyce blocked the cart and clamped a hand down on the handle.

"Peter Donaldson, can you stop making a scene?"

"Duane is an important partner for the company. You go pick a fight with him over twenty thousand dollars, and how does that make me look?"

"And what about me? You do this, and how does that make me look?"

Before we married, I was a standout graduate working at a foreign firm.

She was the one who talked me into quitting to raise the baby, the one who turned me into a stay-at-home husband cut off from the world.

I gripped the cart and turned to go back.

Joyce thought I really meant to go find Duane, and she planted herself in front of me.

In the struggle, the cart hit a shelf.

Cans and seasoning bottles crashed to the floor one after another.

Stepping back, I trod on a rolling can and went down in the middle of the mess.

My palm burned.

Joyce didn't notice the cut on my hand, or the blood that kept seeping out.

She only looked around anxiously at how people were reacting, and lowered her voice.

"Peter, can you not embarrass me?"

"I let you stay home with the baby, not turn into some useless man who only knows how to hold his hand out for money!"

"One word from Duane brings the company hundreds of thousands in sales. Besides spending money, what use are you to me?"

"Get up now and come home with me. Stop humiliating yourself here!"

My ankle was twisted. I held onto the shelf and couldn't steady myself.

I gritted my teeth and tried to push myself up.

But she only gave me one cold look, then walked off without turning back.

In the end, it was a store employee nearby who pulled me up.

He glanced at the spot where Joyce had already vanished, and looked a little awkward.

"Sir, the damaged goods have to be paid for at full price. It comes to four hundred thirty-six. Card or cash?"

The balance in my account was down to sixteen eighty.

I stood there, mortified.

I scrolled through my contacts a few times before I worked up the nerve to call Hudson Weiss.

He was quiet for a moment. "What happened? Where's your wife?"

I dug my nails into my palm and forced a smile into my voice.

"She's busy."

Busy keeping another man company.

Hudson didn't push it. He just sent the money over.

I clenched my teeth and crouched down to gather up the scattered groceries.

The plastic bag had split.

Two of the discount eggs had cracked, too.

The yolk ran down between my fingers, sticky and pathetic.

The employee couldn't stand watching and bent down to help.

When we got to the fan and the razor blades, he asked me quietly.

"Do you still want these?"

I shook my head.

"No."

Joyce, and this marriage.

I didn't want any of it anymore.

Walking out of the store, the heat hit me in the face.

I stood on the crowded street and, for the first time, seriously thought it through.

If I was going to leave Joyce, how much money would I need to save.

2: 2

2.

A plane ticket home was eighteen hundred. A rented place, two thousand.

All I needed was to land the plainest, most ordinary job in the world.

And I could be free of this life for good.

I took the bus home.

On the way, I started reworking my old resume, a little at a time.

I got so absorbed I missed my stop.

Right after, Joyce's call came through.

"Peter, where are you? Why aren't you home yet?"

Aunt Beulah Lambert, my neighbor, stepped in awkwardly to explain.

"Joyce, don't be so harsh. The child's been sick for days now. It hasn't been easy on Peter either."

A while back the baby ran a fever, and I'd stayed up with him for days and nights without closing my eyes.

Aunt Beulah worried I'd wear myself out.

She offered to watch him for half a day so I could get some rest.

Half a day. That was all the rest I got.

In Joyce's eyes, that made me the one falling short.

I wanted to explain.

But listening to the baby's frantic crying, I could only grit my teeth and grab a cab home.

The moment I walked in, Joyce shoved the baby and his bottle into my arms.

"I have a meeting soon."

"Keep him quiet. Don't mess up my work!"

The study door slammed shut.

That thin door was all that separated me from the cool air inside.

From the other side, I could hear Duane's easy laughter.

And something in my chest stung like a needle going in.

The baby cried all the way into the night.

His body was burning up, back to 102.

I hurried to get Joyce.

What met me was a pair of impatient eyes.

"Didn't I tell you to take the kid out of here?"

"I'm swamped with work. Can you not bother me while I'm working?"

I was so panicked my voice shook.

"He's got a fever again. This afternoon, did you give him that leftover milk that had been sitting out for hours?"

Joyce's expression froze.

She didn't answer, but her eyes told me the answer.

I was choking on my anger, but there was no time to argue over it.

I stuffed a few baby things into the bag, any which way.

"Drive us to the hospital. He's burning up too badly. I can't manage him alone."

Joyce looked put out.

She'd just picked up the car keys when her phone rang.

I don't know what the person on the other end said, but her face went tight with worry.

"Duane's caught a cold. He's home alone and feeling awful."

"I'm going to go check on him."

I lifted my head, unable to believe it.

"Your son is at a hundred and two right now!"

"A fever won't kill him."

She frowned and yanked her coat off the hook.

"Aren't you his father? Just take him to the hospital yourself."

"Duane doesn't have any family here. It's pitiful, being sick all alone. Can't you have a little empathy?"

The door slammed shut in my face.

The baby jerked in fright, his little mouth open, crying harder, like his heart was breaking.

There was no time to think.

One arm holding the baby, the other pushing the stroller, I rushed for the hospital.

The foot I'd sprained that afternoon had swollen up.

Every step was a stabbing pain.

The elevator wouldn't come, and then the baby suddenly threw up.

Sour, curdled milk ran down my shoulder and into my collar.

I had no free hand to wipe it, so all I could do was kiss his forehead, over and over.

"Don't be scared, baby. Daddy's taking you to the hospital."

"Daddy's here..."

Sweat soaked through my shirt.

But his little face only got redder, and his crying slowly faded.

My hands shook with fear.

The nurse couldn't help frowning.

"Where's the mother? This little one's fever is serious. You can't handle him on your own."

My throat was dry.

"She's busy."

She was always busy.

Beside us a child was crying, with a mother to hold and soothe him and a father taking the forms off to pay.

When my child cried, all I could do was hold him with one arm and tear the medicine packet open with my teeth.

After they got the IV into him, my arm had gone numb and aching, but I didn't dare switch hands.

The doctor said he needed to be watched overnight.

Carrying the sleeping baby, I went upstairs to pick up the medicine.

Passing the VIP ward, I heard Duane's laugh drift through a half-open door.

"Joyce, it's just a cold. Why did you go to all this trouble?"

My steps halted. I turned to look.

The spacious room was full of flowers and candles.

Duane lounged against the bed, color back in his cheeks, the designer watch Joyce had given him on his wrist.

Joyce sat across from him, pushing a plate of cut steak toward him.

"You're here all by yourself. I couldn't stop worrying."

The candlelight flickered.

And the space between them kept closing.

Duane was just reaching to top off her red wine when I pushed the door open.

Joyce shot to her feet.

Our eyes met.

There was no guilt in hers, only the anger of being caught.

"Peter, what are you doing here? Didn't I tell you to stay home with the kid?"

I lowered my head and gave a small laugh, and said it one word at a time.

"Joyce, let's get a divorce."

3: 3

3.

For two seconds the room went quiet.

Joyce looked like she'd just heard the funniest joke in the world.

"Divorce?"

She took in my pale face and the milk stains on my shirt, and the corner of her mouth curled with contempt.

"With what? No job, no income. You had to borrow four hundred bucks off a friend."

"Leave me, and you and the kid sleep on the street?"

So she knew. She'd known all along how far down I'd gone.

I looked at our son's small, colorless face, and something in my chest sank, inch by inch.

"Yes."

"This life of living off someone else, holding out my hand for money, it's worse than sleeping on the street!"

Joyce let out a cold laugh.

"Peter, stop playing hard to get."

"A man like you, a kept man, wouldn't even get custody after a divorce!"

Duane set down his glass.

"Joyce, don't put it so harshly."

He sounded like he was talking her down, but there was an open superiority in his voice.

"Peter, you've got it wrong. Joyce and I are just work partners."

"She heard I was sick and stopped by on her way. That's all."

As he spoke, Duane lifted his wrist, showing off the expensive watch there.

"She insisted on giving me this watch too."

"I said it was too much, but she said I landed the account for her company, so a little gift was nothing."

Then he pointed at the limited-edition bag on the couch.

"That's the same. I turned it down plenty of times, honestly."

Joyce gave a light laugh.

"A few thousand dollars, it's not like it's worth anything. No need to explain yourself to him."

A few thousand dollars.

A few hours ago, she'd been humiliating me over a few dozen.

Now, to keep Duane happy, a few thousand dollars wasn't even worth mentioning.

I looked at the gauze wrapped around my palm and couldn't stop myself from asking.

"Joyce, is this what you meant by the company being short on cash?"

"Do you actually have no money, or do you just not want to spend any on me?"

Joyce frowned, her whole face impatient.

"Duane creates value for the company. Can you?"

"What have you ever done besides circle around the kid all day?"

"The house reeks of formula, and you don't even bother to shave."

Her eyes moved over me, full of disgust.

"You hold the baby until your wrist shakes, can't even twist off a bottle cap."

"I'm embarrassed to take you out, and you've still got the nerve to compare yourself to Duane?"

The first time my wrist gave out was the day our son turned a month old.

After several nights straight without sleep, I was carrying tea when the cup slipped out of my hand.

A room full of guests watched me crouch down to pick up the pieces.

Joyce blocked me from their view that day.

That night she taped a medicated patch over the injury, promising me again and again.

"This is between us, husband and wife. I won't tell a soul."

Now that so-called secret had become a joke she and Duane shared over dinner.

Duane raised his glass, a flicker of a smile at his mouth.

"What are you looking at me for?"

Joyce gave a cold snort.

"Am I wrong?"

"You make a fool of yourself, so don't blame other people for not wanting anything to do with you!"

Joyce's voice drew more than a few stares.

Those sharp looks pulled me back into that miserable afternoon.

I clenched my teeth and pressed down the anger churning in my chest.

"Why do you think I got tendonitis? Because I'm the one caring for our son day and night!"

"When your startup was at its hardest, I ran around after clients with you during the day and watched the baby at night."

"After you went back to work, every single time he ran a fever, I was the one who stayed up till dawn."

"I quit my job, cut off my own income, put you and the kid first."

"And you take the injury I got from raising our son and use it to flatter another man!"

My voice went hoarser and hoarser, and the wound on my palm started seeping blood again.

But Joyce just stood there, cold-faced, and moved to Duane's side.

"Are you done? Duane's still sick. Do you have to raise hell and disturb everyone?"

Our son burning at 102 didn't count as sick.

One word from Duane, though, was enough for her to abandon her own child and keep him company deep into the night.

I looked at this woman in front of me, and all at once I lost every ounce of strength to argue.

4: 4

4.

I took the baby to the inpatient ward myself.

The nurse reminded me to settle the bill.

One try after another, and every payment failed.

Then a notice popped up on my phone.

"This debit card has been suspended."

Behind me, the people in line clicked their tongues, impatient.

I dug through my whole bag and came up with a few loose dollars.

I stared at my contacts for a long time.

Hudson had just covered the damages at the supermarket for me. I didn't have the face to ask him again, so I called Joyce.

More than a dozen calls, and no one picked up.

All I got back was one cold reply.

"When you've thought it through, come back and apologize to Duane."

"Apologize, and the card will work again."

I stared at the screen, cold all over.

Earlier, when I was leaving the ward, Joyce had taken half a step after me.

She'd looked at the baby's little hand, bruised purple from the needle, and something in her eyes flickered too, a moment of pain.

But in the end, she still stopped.

Because of Duane.

Because she wouldn't let Duane feel slighted.

So this was how she meant to force me to bow my head.

Seeing the baby's high fever, the nurse arranged treatment first and told me to make up the payment before dawn.

The next day the fever broke, and I looked down at my ring finger.

In the end, I slipped off the wedding ring.

A ring that had cost over ten thousand sold for just twenty-three hundred.

The clerk asked me again and again, "Once we buy it back, there's no getting it returned. You're sure?"

I looked at the pale band of skin at the base of my finger and gave a small nod.

I paid the medical bill with the money from the ring, then bought a plane ticket back to my hometown.

That left me with a few hundred dollars.

But it was the first time in all these years that I'd actually held money of my own.

I wanted to go back and pack a few clothes.

The key wouldn't go into the lock, no matter how I tried.

The fingerprint scanner didn't work either.

I knocked for a long time, and finally the door opened.

Duane stood behind Joyce, wearing my slippers.

"Peter, you're finally back."

He said it so easily, as if he were the real man of the house.

Joyce glanced at the baby in my arms, and her face softened a good deal.

Her hand even lifted on its own.

But one look at Duane beside her, and she pulled it back, her face going cold again.

"You can come in, but apologize to Duane first."

I froze for a few seconds.

"This is my home."

"Oh, so you still know it's your home?"

Joyce blocked the doorway, her expression strange.

"If you know it, then stop threatening me with divorce at every turn."

"For the sake of you looking after the baby, bow your head today and we'll call it over."

I picked out the furniture in here with my own hands.

There was still a baby bottle in the kitchen I hadn't gotten around to washing.

And now, to walk into my own home, I had to apologize to the man who'd taken it over.

"Never mind."

I took the divorce papers I'd prepared at the print shop out of my bag and set them down at the door.

I pressed them lightly under that key that would never open the door again.

"I wasn't planning on coming back to this home anyway."

Joyce went still.

The trace of pity in her eyes turned into pure impatience.

"Peter, what more do you want?"

"It's just an apology. It's not some huge deal. Why do you have to be this stubborn?"

I didn't answer.

I held the baby, turned, and walked toward the elevator.

But the instant I stepped into it,

a loud crash came from behind me, out of nowhere.