The Cruel Wife

Borrowed Warmth

The young couple inside the room was startled. The woman gently brushed the dust off my boy and asked in a soft voice, "Little one, are you all right? Where's your father?"

Ash nervously picked at his small hands and mustered his courage. "Ma'am, my dad is sick. He's very cold right now. Could you lend me a blanket? I can trade you my St. Christopher medal for it. Please help my dad, okay?"

The woman hesitated for a moment, then hurried to a cabinet and took out an unopened blanket, handing it to him. "Take it. I hope your father gets well soon."

Maybe that night had already worn him thin; faced with a stranger's kindness, Ash suddenly couldn't speak. He hugged the blanket tight and bowed over and over. "Thank you, Ma'am. Thank you, Mister. Thank you so much."

The woman waved him off and stopped him from continuing. "Don't thank me. We didn't buy the blanket. It was from the hospital's founder, Ms. Chase—she gave one to every patient's family after her partner's surgery went well.

"See? There's even a photo of her and her partner on it. If you really want to show thanks, wish Ms. Chase and her partner a long, happy life together."

Ash froze. The image of Eira Chase throwing him out of the ward flashed through his head, and then the memory of the other Eira—when she used to hold him and run laughing across the grass—came back. Tears spilled over.

"I know. I'll thank Ms. Chase properly," he whispered.

The ache in my chest felt sharper than it had on the operating table.

I remembered how, once upon a time, Eira had loved me and our son. She had stayed up nights picking names for him, bought out every toy store in town for his birthday gifts, and read childish fairy tales to him while I lay feverish.

Then, Skye had returned to the country, and everything ended. He had used his heart condition to set traps for us again and again—playing helpless and pitiful to win Eira's sympathy, then tempting our son to hide a caterpillar in his bed so he could stage an attack and let Eira walk in on it. After that, nothing had been the same.

Inside the ward, the woman nodded with relief and asked, "By the way, where is your mother? Why isn't she with you?"

Ash looked down; his tears fell onto the plastic sleeve covering the smiling photo of Eira and Skye on the blanket. His voice was barely audible. "My mother… she died."

After thanking the kind couple, Ash ran back toward the hospital lobby clutching the precious blanket. He nearly collided with Skye, who was carrying his little dog. Skye's face twisted with contempt—his cheeks flushed, his brow knitting. "Get out of the way, you little bastard. Do you know how expensive this outfit is? Selling you wouldn't even cover the cost of dirtying them! Just like your dad—filthy scum."

Skye's face darkened as he booted my boy down, ignoring the bruise on my boy's head. Ash landed on the floor, the blanket flying from his arms. Pain didn't slow him down—he reached for the blanket, but Skye stamped down and ground his heel into my son's hand, towering over him with a menacing look.

"Listen, you little bastard. If you dare show up looking pitiful in front of Eira again, I'll have you and your lowborn father thrown out. Do you hear me?" His eyes were cold as if he wanted Ash to vanish forever.

Rage and heartbreak crashed through me like a tidal wave, nearly drowning me. I forced myself to move, trying to pull Skye's foot away and yelling at him. 'Let go of my child! Take it out on me if you must! Don't hurt my son!'

I shouted and shouted, but Skye didn't hear a word. He seemed to relish the pink flush of pain in Ash's face and pressed down even harder.