My three-year-old daughter had acute appendicitis. But instead of being there for her, my wife was busy taking care of Luke Granthill’s son——who was awaiting a kidney transplant. Luke is her first love, her white moonlight. She told me to take our daughter to the hospital by taxi.
Because she wasn’t treated in time, what should have been a routine surgery turned into a tragedy. My daughter died from an abdominal infection caused by the delayed operation.
At the hospital, I broke down completely. All I wanted was an explanation. Instead, the doctor gave me nothing but a cold, clinical response.
“Even minor surgeries carry risks,” he said flatly. “But in your case, the child died of an abdominal infection due to delayed treatment. This is a known high-risk factor in appendicitis cases. There was nothing we could do.”
My hands trembled as I dialed my wife’s number. Before I could even speak, her impatient voice pierced through the line.
“It’s just an appendectomy! You’re her father—can’t you handle this yourself? Luke’s son is about to go into surgery for a kidney transplant. Don’t bother me right now.”
Luke. The boy she dropped everything for wasn’t even hers.
Just then, my mother-in-law rushed into the hospital. Seeing me collapsed on the ground, she ran over. I looked up at her, hollow and broken.
“Mom... she’s gone. I have nothing left. Please, just let me go.”
——
Her eyes filled with tears as she crouched beside me, gently patting my shoulder.
“I spoke to the doctor,” she said softly. “It’s rare, but it can happen. Where’s that ungrateful girl? Is she still with Luke?”
Without waiting for my reply, she added, “Don’t worry. I’ll call her right now. For her not to be here at a time like this—your father and I won’t let this slide.”
I handed her my phone, already open to Rachel Sinclair’s latest social media post from just an hour ago.
"Thank God, we finally found a matching kidney. Don’t worry, baby. Daddy and Auntie will wait for you to come back safely after defeating the monster."
The photo beneath the caption showed Luke’s five-year-old son lying in a hospital bed.
My mother-in-law’s voice caught in her throat. Her hands clenched. Anger gradually replaced the grief in her eyes.
“I’ll call that rebellious girl right now,” she muttered. “Don’t worry, the Sinclair family will give you justice for this…”
But I had already pressed dial.
The moment the call connected, Rachel’s voice came through, laced with irritation.
“Ethan, do you have to keep calling me? It’s just a small appendectomy! Aren’t you the child’s father? If you can’t even handle this, what good are you?”
“Jamie is going into surgery soon. I have to stay with Luke. Stop bothering me!”
She didn’t give me a chance to respond. The line went dead.
I had put her on speaker. Every word reached my mother-in-law’s ears. Her face turned pale. Her lips trembled as she searched for words.
I forced a smile, but it crumbled instantly as tears poured down.
“Please, Mom… I have nothing left. I can’t live like this anymore. Not with her.”
Just then, a stretcher rolled in front of us—the small body under a white sheet lying motionless.
“Please prepare for the postmortem arrangements,” the doctor said quietly.
My knees buckled. I collapsed again, unable to breathe, unable to move.
My mother-in-law called the funeral home. I followed like a ghost—silent, numb—until they loaded my daughter’s body into the van.
Suddenly, something snapped inside me. I rushed forward, grabbing the car door and holding it tightly.
As if letting go would mean losing her all over again.
