Panic flickered through Wilfred Farley's eyes, those eyes that were always so controlled.
“Carrie was so worried about the puppy that I took her out to clear her head. She had a few too many drinks and……”
His tone softened a fraction:
“Anyway, forget about that. I'll be there for the next prenatal appointment, I promise.”
Again. The same routine.
A flimsy excuse to wave me off, then something sweet to smooth it over, as if none of it ever happened.
But Wilfred, you will never need to come to another appointment with me.
“Don't bother. Let's get a divorce.”
He froze for a second, then his face twisted with anger.
“Freya, is this some reporter thing? Blowing everything out of proportion? I told you it was an accident. Do you really have to make a federal case out of it?”
“And let's be honest here. You're pushing thirty, you're pregnant, and right now you're nothing but a logistics grunt at the station. Who else is going to want you besides me?”
“I break my back at that hospital every single day for this family, and I don't come home to deal with you picking fights for no reason!”
He stormed toward the door.
Passing the entryway, his gaze snagged on the corner of a document poking out of my bag.
The words were perfectly legible. Death certificate.
Wilfred turned back, confused.
“Who died?”
He reached for the paper, about to pull it out and read it.
But his phone rang. Carrie's voice came through, small and choked with tears.
“Wil, one of the puppies might be choking on milk. There are customers in the shop and I just can't handle everything at once.”
“It's not going to die, is it? I'm so scared……”
Wilfred's face went taut with worry.
“Don't cry. I'm on my way.”
And just like that, he left. Didn't look back once.
Didn't even lock his study, the room he never liked me setting foot in.
Something pulled me inside. Then something under the desk cut right through me.
That year, I'd been the station's most promising new reporter. I'd been assigned to interview the retiring hospital director.
But the old man was proud and stubborn. He turned me away at the door.
Days of back-to-back shifts caught up with me, and my blood sugar crashed. I passed out in the garden.
It was Wilfred who found me, who helped me up. He told me the old director was set in his ways and wouldn't change his mind.
I'd hung my head, defeated. Then the next second, something sweet was being pushed past my lips. A tangerine candy.
Wilfred gave me a playful wink.
“But I do admire people who take their work seriously. So how about this: interview me instead.”
I found out later that he was the youngest medical professor in the city.
Countless people had tried and failed to land an interview with the brilliant young prodigy. He'd made an exception only for me.
That was how Wilfred and I began.
Later, we both grew busier and busier. One evening he looked at me with difficulty in his eyes.
“Freya, I know becoming a top journalist is your dream.”
“But the older folks at home need someone looking after them. Could you step back from work? I promise I'll spend the rest of my life making it up to you.”
And I knew just as well that becoming the finest doctor he could be was his dream.
So I gave in.
I didn't quit. I transferred to the logistics department instead, somewhere lighter, because at least that way I could stay close to the work I loved.
On so many sleepless nights, I'd sit under the lamp and run my thumb over my press credential.
Every time Wilfred caught me doing it, guilt would flood his face, and he'd promise me again that he'd be good to me.
Now that same credential, the one I'd treasured more than almost anything, was shoved under the corner of his desk to keep it from wobbling.
I opened his safe with Carrie's birthday.
On top was a thick manila envelope.
Inside, photographs. All kinds.
The two of them embracing. Kissing. Walking hand in hand along a beach.
Beneath the photos, receipts. An apartment he'd bought Carrie. The startup capital for her shop. Her renovations.
The business lost money every single month, and still he covered the gap.
