Lost Love after Daughter's Death

The sterile smell of the hospital lingered on my clothes as I sat in my car, staring at the phone screen that displayed a balance of zero. Three years. Three years of working double shifts at the gallery, selling my paintings for whatever I could get, skipping meals so I could put every dollar toward Liv's surgery fund. One hundred and fifty thousand dollars—gone.

My hands trembled as I called the bank again, hoping against hope that this was some terrible mistake. The automated voice confirmed what I already knew in my heart. The account had been emptied yesterday at 2:47 PM. Authorization code matched Tobias's information perfectly.

I drove to his office in a daze, my vision blurring with tears I refused to let fall. The gleaming corporate tower where Dean Enterprises occupied three floors seemed to mock me, its glass windows reflecting the gray Seattle sky like cold, unfeeling eyes. The receptionist's smile faltered when she saw my face.

"Mrs. Dean? Are you—"

"I need to see my husband. Now."

Tobias looked up from his mahogany desk as I burst through his office door, his expression shifting from surprise to annoyance in a heartbeat. Behind him, floor-to-ceiling windows offered a panoramic view of Elliott Bay, the same waters where he'd proposed to me six years ago. How naive I'd been then, believing his whispered promises of forever.

"Melody? What are you doing here? I told you I have the Henderson meeting—"

"Where is it?" My voice came out steadier than I felt. "Where is Liv's surgery money?"

His jaw tightened, and he set down his gold-plated pen with deliberate precision. "We've discussed this. The surgery can wait. Dr. Martinez said—"

"Dr. Martinez said she needs it within the month, or her condition will become inoperable." I stepped closer to his desk, my hands clenched into fists. "One hundred and fifty thousand dollars, Tobias. Three years of my life. Where is it?"

For a moment, something flickered across his face—guilt, maybe, or shame. But it vanished as quickly as it came, replaced by the cold mask he'd worn around me for the past two years.

"I moved it to a better investment account. The returns will—"

"Don't lie to me." My voice cracked, and I hated myself for it. "I saw the withdrawal. Cash transfer. What did you buy her this time?"

His silence was answer enough. I watched him straighten his tie, the same nervous habit he'd had since college, and felt something inside me break a little more.

"It's Celine's birthday," he said finally, his tone matter-of-fact, as if discussing the weather. "She's been wanting this vintage Cartier necklace. 1920s, very rare. The opportunity came up, and I couldn't—"

"Our daughter is dying." The words hung in the air between us, sharp and brutal. "She's dying, and you bought your mistress jewelry with her surgery money."

"Don't be so dramatic, Melody. It's not becoming." He stood, smoothing his suit jacket. "Liv isn't dying. She's sick, yes, but children are resilient. This emotional manipulation of yours—"

"Manipulation?" I laughed, but there was no humor in it. "Our six-year-old daughter asked me yesterday if she was going to see Grandpa Robert in heaven soon. She weighs thirty-eight pounds, Tobias. Thirty-eight pounds."

He flinched at the mention of his grandfather, but his expression hardened again just as quickly. "The money is spent. I'm not canceling my plans for the Bahamas because you've worked yourself into hysteria. Celine and I leave tomorrow, and when I get back, we'll discuss other options for Liv's treatment."

"Other options?" My voice rose despite my efforts to stay calm. "There are no other options. This surgery is her only chance."

"Then maybe you should have thought about that before you drove my grandfather to his grave."

The words hit me like a physical blow. Even after all these years, he still blamed me for Robert Dean's heart attack, still used it as justification for every cruel thing he'd done since.

I turned and walked toward the door, my legs feeling like they might give out at any moment. At the threshold, I looked back at him one last time. He was already reaching for his phone, probably calling Celine to confirm their dinner reservations or spa appointments.

"She asked for you last night," I whispered. "She wanted to know why Daddy doesn't come say goodnight anymore."

He didn't look up from his phone.

That evening, I sat on the edge of Liv's bed, watching her chest rise and fall with each labored breath. Her skin had taken on a grayish pallor that made my heart clench, and her eyes seemed too large for her thin face. The smartwatch on her tiny wrist—a gift from Tobias last Christmas—blinked with her elevated heart rate.

"Is Daddy coming home tonight, Mommy?"

I smoothed her dark hair, so much like mine, away from her forehead. "He's... he's busy with work, sweetheart."

"But tomorrow's Saturday. He promised we'd paint together."

I bit my lip to keep from crying. Through the bedroom door, I could hear Tobias moving around our master suite, the sound of his suitcase wheels rolling across the hardwood floor. He was humming—actually humming—as he packed for his romantic getaway while our daughter struggled to breathe ten feet away.

"Maybe when he gets back," I managed to say.

Liv's small hand found mine, her fingers cold and fragile as bird bones. "Mommy? Am I going to get better?"

I looked into her trusting brown eyes—Tobias's eyes—and felt my world crumble. In the hallway, his footsteps passed by her door without stopping.