She Could Save Thousands, But Not Her Own Daughters

My wife was the top expert in cardiothoracic surgery and had saved countless patients on the brink of death.

But when performing heart surgery on our twins, she made a fatal mistake.

I held our children’s ashes and cried until I collapsed, while she hurriedly left with her luggage.

She said she had to rush to perform a high-profile surgery in another city.

“Leo, the twins were born with congenital heart defects. Even a god couldn’t have saved them—let alone me and I’m no god. My condolences. Once you feel a bit better, we can talk about having children again.”

But that very night, the intern anesthesiologist she was supervising—Henry Walker—posted on his social media.

It was a nine-photo grid featuring dazzling Disneyland fireworks and a shot of him gently holding hands with a woman.

“First time assisting in surgery. Messed up the anesthesia dosage and nearly caused a medical accident. Almost cost me my chance at full-time employment. Thank God for my fairy goddess who turned things around.”

The next post showed him embracing and kissing a girl.

“If this post gets more than ten likes, I’ll confess to my fairy goddess.”

In the photo, the woman’s face was only partially visible, but the scar on her jaw... was identical to the scar Irene got years ago when she took a knife for me.

My already shattered heart finally turned completely cold.

I moved my fingers and replied.

“No need for ten likes. As her husband, I give you my blessing to be together.”

The next second, a call came in. Irene’s usually aloof voice was now laced with anger.

“It was just a kid playing truth or dare and posting nonsense. Did you really have to leave such an embarrassing comment? He just got into the hospital—what you did could ruin his career. I’m giving you ten seconds. Delete that comment, or we’re getting a divorce.”

I hung up the call and added both her and the intern’s names to the hospital executive list for reassignment—to a remote branch in Africa. Reason: Major medical malpractice.

Since you're so eager to protect him, then you can go suffer together.

Why should the one who killed my children get to smile so happily?

——

Ten seconds later, Irene sent me a question mark.

When I didn’t respond, she followed up with.

[I’ll have the divorce papers couriered to you immediately. If you insist on making a scene, then let’s just get divorced.]

I finally replied with one word: [Okay.]

On her end, the “typing…” indicator kept flashing. But in the end, she sent nothing.

I sent her a screenshot of Henry’s nine-photo Disneyland post, along with the report of the medical accident.

[Irene, it was him who killed our children, wasn’t it?]

All I got in return was a red exclamation mark. She had blocked me.

When I checked back on the social media posts, all of Henry’s flashy updates were gone. Only a lonely apology remained:

“The patient's family treated us to a meal to thank us for saving their child. Everyone got drunk and played games. I lost at truth or dare and the family member told me to pick a girl present and post about it. Miss Wells only helped me so I wouldn’t feel embarrassed. I apologize for any misunderstanding or negative impact.”

The picture? A crying cartoon cat bowing.

Underneath, Irene had commented.

“Don’t be scared, Henry. I’ve got your back. Some people better not think they can bully you.”

And then came the string of replies:

“We all knew it was a joke. The family made a disgusting dare. Even if we didn’t like it, we had no choice but to play along.”

“‘Some people’? Is she talking about her husband? Poor Irene, married to a mad man. Losing the kid was just bad luck, yet he keeps making a scene at the hospital, insisting it was her and Henry’s fault.”

“Miss Wells standing up so fiercely to protect him—so charming!”

I let out a cold laugh.

Then I noted down each of their names, one by one and added them all to the reassignment list.