Done Playing Chance with His Heart

It was well past midnight when we finally returned home from the ER.

Camille Murphy's fever had broken, but she still slept fitfully in my arms, tossing and turning.

As I pushed open the front door, the first thing I noticed was a handwritten notice pinned to the dry-erase board in the foyer. The words were written in Neville Murphy's precise, meticulous handwriting.

[Violation: Unscheduled interruption on a non-draw day. All wish draws for next month are forfeited. Let this serve as a reminder to respect our household agreement.]

A bone-chilling cold crept from my fingertips to my toes.

In this house, even if our child was dying, I wasn't allowed to reach out to my husband without drawing the right slip first. That was the rule he'd imposed on our family.

I carried Camille to her room, tucked her into bed, and then pulled out my phone to check the balance in our checking account.

As my social media feed refreshed, a new post from Klara Curry appeared on the screen.

In the photo, her knee bore nothing more than a faint red mark. Neville was bent over it, carefully dabbing antiseptic onto her skin. Behind them, case files were scattered across a table.

The caption read: [Mr. Murphy canceled three eight-figure video conferences just to stay by my side and change my bandage. Having unlimited privileges without having to draw a number feels way too good!]

I stared at the photo for a long time, my eyes burning.

Just then, the heavy front door clicked open.

Neville walked in, kicked off his shoes, and headed straight down the hallway without so much as a glance at Camille's closed bedroom door.

He stopped at the notice board in the foyer, checking to make sure I'd seen the citation.

"Camille almost suffocated tonight," I said, my voice hoarse.

His hands paused as he loosened his tie.

"Rules are rules," he replied flatly. "You agreed to the wish jar contract when we set it up. Whenever you draw a slip, I'll fulfill my obligation to the letter. But you don't get to use our kid to circumvent the system."

He slipped off his suit jacket and handed it to me.

As I reached for it, a photograph slipped from his pocket and fluttered to the floor. It was the uncropped original of the picture Klara had posted.

In the bottom-right corner, wrapped snugly around Klara's ankles, was a pair of camel-colored leg warmers. It was the same pair I'd spent two straight weeks staying up late to make for Neville.

And now, they were wrapped around his assistant's legs.

"Why does she have my leg warmers?" I demanded.

"Her joints started acting up after she got caught in the rain, so I let her borrow them." Neville frowned, looking mildly annoyed by my question. "What's the big deal?"

He then reached into his pocket, pulled out a plastic bag, and tossed it onto the kitchen island. Inside were a few generic Band-Aids.

"Klara asked me to give you these to make up for borrowing your warmers," he said, looking at me with unwavering self-righteousness. "It's an equal exchange of emotional value. You haven't lost anything."

I turned away and opened a kitchen drawer. Buried inside was a piece of red construction paper: the Golden Ticket Neville had handwritten when he proposed to me years ago.

It had been his promise to me on the day we got married.

[Present this ticket, and Neville Murphy will unconditionally fulfill one request from Rita Villanueva.]

I'd once treasured it like a priceless keepsake, unwilling to use it. Now, I dropped it straight into the garbage disposal and switched it on.

The blades roared as they shredded the paper into pieces, the sound grating on Neville's nerves.

"What kind of childish tantrum are you throwing now?"

He strode into the living room, grabbed a fresh stack of blank slips, and stuffed them into the glass jar. "Since you're determined to throw a fit, your quota for next month is officially zero. You can draw again when you've learned to follow the rules."