My son, my daughter and I still depended on him for everything.
I rushed forward, trying to snatch the phone back.
But the woman didn’t seem to notice me at all, not even lifting her head.
Helplessly, I watched as she scrolled through the call log and began deleting the missed calls.
Every single one of them was from the same person—my wife.
I froze, staring blankly at the screen.
When had I made so many calls to Freddie?
The first was at 9 p.m., followed by two more. Then, half an hour later, I began calling again, every few minutes. One after another.
Her delicate hands, with perfectly manicured nails, tapped quickly across the screen as she deleted them. But she didn’t erase them all—only the later ones. She left the first three intact.
Instinctively, I reached into my pocket—only to find it empty.
My phone was gone. I must have lost it somewhere.
At that moment, Aiden tugged at my hand. “Mom, my stomach hurts.”
I immediately pushed everything else aside, took his hand firmly and said, “Let’s go find Dad.”
In the kitchen, Freddie stood bent over the stove, cooking porridge.
He wore a light gray pajama set and his hand stirred the pot slowly with a spoon. His expression was distracted, distant.
I reached out and tapped his shoulder.
“Aiden’s stomach hurts. Go to the garage and get the car. We need to take him to the hospital.”
But Freddie didn’t respond. He kept staring out the window at the falling snow, silent.
My temper flared. “Hey! Even if we’re in a cold war, you can ignore me if you want. But you still have to take care of your child. You’re his father, after all.”
Suddenly, Freddie turned off the stove and spun around.
For a moment, I thought he had finally come to his senses. But instead of listening to me, he walked straight toward the bedroom.
The woman lay lazily wrapped in the blankets. When she saw him enter, she opened her arms, ready to embrace him.
But Freddie brushed past her and reached for his phone.
Leaning closer, I saw what he was doing—he was calling me.
The call rang and rang, but no one answered. His brows knit together in a frown.
I let out a heavy sigh.
“You idiot. My phone is gone. Of course I can’t answer your call. I’m standing right here in front of you—why can’t you just speak to me directly?”
As Freddie prepared to dial again, the woman slipped out from under the blankets and wound her arms around his neck.
Smiling sweetly, she cooed, “Freddie, don’t you see what time it is? It’s almost midnight. My sister-in-law is with the kids—they must have gone to bed early. Can’t you just talk to her tomorrow?”
Freddie hesitated, then lowered his phone without making the second call.
Pinching the bridge of his nose, he said helplessly, “I shouldn’t have ignored her earlier. She’ll be angry for sure this time. I’m afraid she’ll make a scene again.”
The woman looked at him with wide, innocent eyes. “Didn’t you say my sister-in-law is easy to please? What, are you scared she’ll divorce you?”
Freddie’s response was immediate. “She won’t.”
His gaze hardened as he looked at her. “And besides money, don’t even think about anything else.”
For a fleeting moment, a shadow darkened the woman’s eyes.
“I know. I don’t want to replace her. I just want to be with you here, at your house, at least once. It’s almost New Year’s—you can bring them back for the reunion then.”
She blinked, her expression pitiful.
“Freddie, every time we do it in a hotel, I feel like a prostitute.”
Freddie said nothing.
Meanwhile, Aiden cried again, clutching his stomach and whining in pain.
Panic rose in me. I hurried him back to the room and searched the living room for medicine.
But no matter how hard I tried, my hands couldn’t grasp anything.
My five-month-old daughter, Kinsey Tyler, lay sleeping soundly. She hadn’t eaten in a long time, yet no matter how much I shook her, I couldn’t wake her.
