Mon ex-femme est une héritière cachée

On the 4th of April, I passed away in the hospital, alone, abandoned and helpless.

As my soul drifted, I saw myself lying on the bed.

The little hair I had left and my emaciated body stood as stark symbols of the suffering and torment I had endured since the onset of my illness.

I felt a pang of sympathy for myself.

I struggled to lean down, attempting to smooth the furrowed brow on my face but as soon as I reached out, my hand grasped nothing but air.

I waited quietly, hoping that someone would learn of my death, hoping someone would take my body away.

Not long after, the young nurse who often checked on me rushed in with red-rimmed eyes.

She had always been kind to me, often mentioning that I was her first patient.

She had hoped I would survive. I had promised her I would, but barely a day later, I had passed away silently in my bed.

She seemed unable to accept that I had died.

Trembling, she called out my name several times, but I could no longer answer her.

Finally, she turned and left.

She called my family and informed them of my death then asked them to claim my body.

For some reason, a sudden tremor ran through me.

I was curious about how my parents would react when they heard the news.

Would they feel even a hint of sorrow?

I crouched beside the young nurse, watching as she dialed Mommy’s number.

She called several times, but each time, the call was disconnected.

I felt dread and fear, for if the call connected, I knew I wouldn't hear the answer I was hoping for.

Just as I was about to drift away, Mommy finally answered. There was the faint sound of a "Happy Birthday" song in the background.

I froze and then gazed at the calendar hanging in the middle of the hospital lobby.