Call The Police For An Egg
I had a fever, so I boiled myself an egg.
I didn’t expect my son to come home and call the police.
“There’s a thief in our house,” he told them, dead serious. “She stole one of my eggs.”
The officers thought it was a joke.
Evan didn’t.
“Ms. Blake gave me those eggs. They’re imported. She stole from me, so she should be arrested.”
Then he looked at me like I was a stranger.
“Mom’s just lazy. She’s pretending to be sick. No wonder Dad likes spending time with Ms. Blake.”
I bit down hard to keep from crying.
It didn’t help.
To him, my silence was proof I was guilty.
“Ms. Blake said people who do bad things always act pitiful,” he added coldly.
When my husband got home, he didn’t even ask how I was.
“You sit around all day and still say you’re sick? Sounds like you just have too much time to be dramatic. If you were half as thoughtful as Sophie, I wouldn’t be this exhausted.”
I almost laughed.
When I had a 102-degree fever, he said the clinic was too expensive.
But when his secretary mentioned her villa felt a little cold, he signed a thirty-million-dollar contract without hesitation.
He was never stingy.
Just never with me.
That was the moment I stopped caring.
That night, I stared at the message my father had sent me.
And made a decision.
Tomorrow, I was going home,
not as his wife,
not as anyone’s mother,
but as the heiress I had always been.