Toxic Compassion

I was broke, so I sold my wedding ring just to scrape together enough money to pay for the medical bills.

After I was discharged, I took the divorce papers my wife, Hannah, had signed to the courthouse and filed for divorce. She had thrown those papers in my face last year to force me to agree to let Wyatt Ford move in.

Back then, she had said with red-rimmed eyes, "If you can't make room for Wyatt, we'll get divorced."

Because I loved her, I endured it like a fool. I never thought those same divorce papers would end up being useful now.

The filing went smoothly. The clerk told me I could finalize the divorce once the waiting period was over. I counted the days and realized I would be able to finish it before I died, and I could feel the weight being lifted from my chest.

For the next two weeks, Hannah's social media looked like a travel magazine. She took Wyatt all over the Western continent, visiting every landmark she could find. Wyatt was wearing brand-new designer clothes in every photo, and the shoes on his feet cost more than six months of my salary.

As for me, I forced myself to work at the company during the day and washed dishes at a restaurant starting at five in the afternoon. After that, I would Uber on my electric scooter.

I had asked around. Even the cheapest cemetery plot costs eight thousand.

Other than the three thousand dollars in salary I had not been paid this month, I was still short a full five thousand dollars. So, even with less than a month left, even when it felt like there was a knife twisting inside of me, I did not have the bravery to stop working.

That day, while I was washing dishes, my phone suddenly rang. As soon as I answered, Hannah's furious voice could be heard through the kitchen. "Nathan, didn't I text you and tell you to come pick up Wyatt and me? Why aren't you here yet? Do you know Wyatt and I have been waiting at the airport for two hours?!"

If I had heard Hannah say that in the past, I would have apologized repeatedly before rushing over to pick her up. But now, I simply said, "I didn't see the text, and I don't have time right now. Get back home yourself."

The tone of her voice instantly went up as she said, "Nathan, are you still mad because I spent money on Wyatt? I already told you I was only feeling bad for him! And I haven't even talked to you about pretending to be sick yet!"

I stopped listening and hung up.

By the time I finished all my part-time jobs and got home, it was already past eleven at night.