The Cruel Wife

After being forced to give my wife's first love my heart, I died in the hallway of the private hospital she had personally founded.

My six-year-old son, Ash, had already begged her thrice by the time I had drawn my last breath.

The first time was when he tugged on her hand, saying I was coughing up blood. Sneering, she claimed, "So he's finally learned something—teaching his kid how to lie." Then, she had the bodyguards throw him out of the room.

The second time was when he clung to her sleeve, insisting that I rambled nonsense due to the pain. "It's just a heart transplant," she opined with a frown. "The doctor already said he won't die."

At that, the bodyguards stepped in again and dragged him away.

The third time was when he fell to the ground, clutching her pant leg with all his strength, crying that I had already passed out. She finally lost her temper by this point, grabbing Ash by the throat and hurling him out of the room.

"I have already said it—Howard isn't going to die. Dare to disturb Skye's rest again, and I'll throw both of you out of this hospital," she warned.

To save me, my son pawned the most precious thing he owned—his St. Christopher medal—to a nurse. "Ma'am," he said. "I don't need to live a long life. I just want my dad to live."

She accepted the medal and was about to arrange for me to be transferred to the last available room.

However, my wife's first love, Skye Whitley, had someone block the doorway with his pet dog. He mentioned, "Sorry, kid. Your mom's worried I'll get bored if I can't see my dog. This room is reserved for him."

The Last Room

To make room for Skye Whitley's dog, my hospital bed had been pushed out into the hallway.

When the door to the ward shut, my son was still clutching the St. Christopher medal he had just given away. His tiny fists were already bruised purple, but he pounded the door again and again. "Mister, please give my dad back the room! Mister, please, I'm begging you, open the door!"

His young voice echoed down the hallway, but it couldn't reach Skye, who was inside playing with his dog. The louder Ash cried, the more entertained Skye seemed. "Good boy, don't pay attention to the trash outside."

Ash's voice grew hoarse. He was once the kind of child who would cry for a hug if he scraped his knee. Now, he just used the hem of his shirt to wipe the blood seeping from his fists. With tears in his eyes, he gritted out, "You big bully! This room was mine, I traded my St. Christopher medal for it! How can you steal it just to keep your dog here? You're a big bully!"

His voice had grown so raw it was barely understandable, even his accusations fragile and breaking. I lay on the bed in the hallway, my tears running together with the blood.

'I'm sorry, Ash. I couldn't protect you,' I silently apologized. 'I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.'

But no one opened the door. Ash stumbled back to my bed, his eyes swollen and red. "Daddy, I'm sorry. I'm useless. I let the bad guy steal your room. Daddy, I'm sorry."

I could feel my life draining away. I knew I was close to the end, but I didn't want to scare him. Forcing the last of my strength into a smile, I whispered, "Ash, I'm feeling a little cold. Can you get me a blanket?"

He froze for two seconds, then quickly wiped his tears and nodded again and again. "Okay! I'll get you a blanket right now. Daddy, you have to wait for me, okay? You have to wait!"

I watched his small figure running down the hall, and slowly, I closed my eyes. "Ash, I'm sorry. I can't wait."

…

The next time I opened them, I was no longer alive. I was a soul, following my son.

Ash was smart. He knew the walk home was too far, so when he spotted an open room, he darted inside.

Another young man lay on the bed. His wife was gently tucking the blanket around him, making sure not a single corner was left uncovered. Beside them stood a five-year-old boy holding a cup of warm water, calling "Daddy" in the sweetest voice.

For some reason, Ash's eyes welled up again, but he didn't let himself cry. He still had to borrow a blanket for his dad.