I was married to Barnaby James for five years. Every single year, we spent the holidays with his family.
This year, he finally agreed to come home with me to visit my mother.
But the night before we were supposed to leave, his precious Elise called—and just like that, he changed his mind.
My mother's heart condition had flared up again. I got on my knees and begged him to come with me.
He looked down at me and said, "Is faking illness for sympathy genetic in your family?"
I made the trip home alone.
On New Year's Eve, he sent me a message: "Throw your little tantrum, then get back here."
I replied calmly: "Let's get a divorce."
He didn't know that my mother wouldn't survive the night.
——
Winter in the north cuts like a blade. I stood at the end of the hospital corridor wrapped in my heaviest down jacket, and still the cold found its way into my bones from every direction.
My phone buzzed. A WeChat message from Barnaby—a photo of a lavish New Year's Eve feast, captioned: "Saved you a seat. Come back tomorrow morning and I'll pretend none of this happened."
In the photo, his family beamed at the camera. And there, right beside him, sat Elise Pruitt in the very spot that should have been mine. She was wearing a white cashmere dress—the exact one I'd admired weeks ago but couldn't bring myself to buy. Her smile was soft. Harmless. Perfect.
Meanwhile, I stood facing the sealed doors of the emergency room.
Those doors had become the border of my universe. On the other side lay the person who mattered most to me in this world. On this side was hell.
I didn't reply to Barnaby. I just slid the phone back into my pocket and fixed my eyes on that glaring red light above the doors.
I don't know how long I stood there before a nurse burst through, her voice urgent: "The patient's heart has stopped—are you family? We need payment immediately for the imported medication!"
My head rang like a struck bell. Instinct alone carried me to the payment counter. But when I pulled out my bank card, I remembered.
All my savings—every last cent—I had transferred to Barnaby the day before I left.
He'd said his company was having cash flow problems. He needed emergency funds. He'd pay me back after the holiday.
Five years of marriage. I had trusted him without question.
My hands wouldn't stop shaking as I dialed his number. It rang and rang before he finally picked up. In the background, I could hear mahjong tiles clacking and relatives laughing.
"What is it?" Impatience threaded through his voice.
"Barnaby, my mom is—she's being resuscitated. Can you—can you please transfer a hundred thousand to me? I need to pay the hospital." My voice trembled beyond my control, stripped down to a rawness I barely recognized in myself.
Silence. Then a cold, mocking laugh crackled through the speaker.
"Alma Fox, are you done with this performance? You'd really stoop to making up something like this just to drag me back there? Your mother's heart condition stabilized ages ago. Funny how the second I don't come running, she's suddenly on death's door?"
"I'm not lying!" I screamed into the phone, tears finally breaking free. "The doctors said it's critical!"
"Enough." He cut me off, bored. "I'm busy. I don't have time for your theatrics. If you actually need money, call your father. Stop bothering me."
Click.
The line went dead.
In that moment, every draft in that corridor seemed to funnel straight into my chest.
My father had died when I was a child. Barnaby knew that better than anyone.
He hadn't forgotten. He simply didn't care.
I crumpled to the floor, a cornered animal abandoned by the world, clawing at my own hair in silent, soundless desperation. Finally, with trembling fingers, I called the only friend I had and borrowed the money that might save her life.
By the time I finished paying and sprinted back to the emergency room, the red light had gone dark.
The doctor pulled down his mask. Exhaustion lined his face as he looked at me.
He shook his head.
