My Daughter Died Because Of My Wife

After the cremation, I returned home with my daughter, Anjou’s ashes.

Lani Fort had already arrived home before me. She asked me.

“You told me on the phone earlier that something was wrong with Anjou. Why didn’t you answer when I called you back?”

I looked down at the urn in my arms and replied calmly.

“It’s nothing. Anjou is fine. She’s currently being treated at the hospital.”

Lani looked visibly relieved.

“That’s good. Anjou is the eldest granddaughter of the Fort family.

“My mom loves her the most. Nothing can happen to her.”

Her gaze fell on the box in my hands.

“What’s that you’re holding?”

My fingers tightened instinctively as I struggled to keep my expression calm.

“In three days, it’s Maryam’s 70th birthday. This is my gift for her.”

My mother-in-law, Maryam, had her daughter late in life. She only gave birth to Lani when she was nearly forty.

Anjou’s birth made her cherish her even more deeply.

I could already imagine how impactful the scene would be in three days, when she received this gift.

Lani nodded with satisfaction.

“At least you put some thought into it. Hand over the receipt. How much did this gift cost? I’ll reimburse you.”

Ever since I quit my job, I have had to bring her receipts for every single household expense to get reimbursed.

As long as she considered it a reasonable and necessary expense, she would transfer the full amount to me.

But if she thought it was an unnecessary expense, I have to cover it myself. She would not contribute a single cent.

I clutched the urn tightly in my arms as my voice turned cold.

“No, thank you. This is just a small token of my love for Maryam. Please don’t reimburse me.”

No amount of money could bring my daughter back to life.

I got up and walked over to the nursery next to me.

I placed the urn in my hands on the crib, pulled up the soft little blanket, and gently tucked it around her, bit by bit.

I had already washed all the little clothes in the room and disinfected all the toys.

That morning, Anjou was still lying in her crib, playing happily.

She had returned to the crib as a cold, little box.

Lani followed me in and confronted me.

“Noel Taft, are you throwing a tantrum at me just because I didn’t answer your call this afternoon?”

I looked up at her.

“Do I even have the right to throw a tantrum?”

108 calls. If she had answered just one of them, my child might have had a glimmer of hope.

Lani frowned.

“What’s gotten into you today? You’re acting so strange.

“Is Anjou not doing well? Which hospital is she in? I’ll go see her.”