Voucher Wife: Bought, Used, Then Discarded

After I signed the paperwork, the nurse asked me one more time, "Ms. Skelton, are you sure you want to have the abortion without anesthesia? It will hurt a lot."

I dug my nails into my palm. I was so ashamed that I wished I could disappear.

Then, I slowly nodded and said, "I'm sure."

The harsh white fluorescent light overhead made my eyes sting.

The vouchers Yannick went out of his way to make for me were usually good for buying anything and were even better than the most premium credit card. However, they couldn't even buy me the cheapest dose of anesthesia now.

Before I was wheeled into the operating room, I wiped the blood off my phone screen with trembling fingers and replied to the pinned message.

I texted, "Aunt Amanda, I'd like to live in Afrondia with you."

Amanda Millard replied almost immediately, "That's great, Coco! I'll send someone to pick you up in three days."

It wasn't until I lay fully awake on the operating table that I understood what the nurse had meant when she said it would hurt a lot. The cold instruments churned and pulled inside my body. Every movement felt as if I were being torn into pieces.

The cold sensation and the pain intertwined, and I couldn't stop myself from trembling all over. I desperately wanted to curl up.

The doctor holding the scalpel noticed me moving.

He barked, "Hold her down! If her uterus gets injured, she'll hemorrhage. Stop moving!"

The scalpel came down again. I couldn't hold back a sob and tried to sit up, but I was pinned down firmly.

In my haze, I thought I saw the worried look in Yannick's eyes.

A wave of grievance surged through me. I wanted to ask him why he was so cruel to me. But as my tears fell, I realized there was no one in front of me.

He hadn't come.

Three hours later, they wheeled me out of the operating room. As I couldn't afford the hospitalization and medical fees, I was left in the hallway callously.

A cold draft blew over me. My soaked clothes clung to my skin, and blood flowed beneath me.

A message from Yannick popped up on my phone. "Tracy put so much effort into organizing the banquet for our first wedding anniversary. Don't be so ungrateful! She hurt her hand. Get back here right now and thank her!"

I froze and instinctively opened my Instagram feed. Only then did I realize that Tracy had posted an update just a few minutes earlier.

In the photo, Yannick was gently holding her fingertip to his lips and blowing on it, his eyes filled with concern and affection.

She wrote, "It's just a little scrape, but my boss is making such a big deal out of it. He won't even let me wear my diamond ring. He spoils me silly. Oh well. I'm not one of those delicate rich wives who can't bear even a little pain."

I lowered my eyes and gripped my phone tightly, my heart feeling unbearably hollow.

While Yannick was fussing over the tiny scrape on Tracy's fingertip, I was lying alone in a hospital hallway, losing the child I never got the chance to meet.

That was the child he had been waiting for seven years…

But maybe he had stopped wanting that child a long time ago.