My Wife Left Our Son to Celebrate Her Assistant's Birthday

The call ended abruptly.

My knuckles turned white from gripping the phone. I looked up at the isolation ward.

Henry’s tiny body was almost entirely hidden beneath a tangle of tubes and wires. His face, under the oxygen mask, was so pale it was nearly translucent.

Sensing my gaze, he lifted his little hand with great effort and formed a heart shape with his fingers.

His lips moved slightly, and the oxygen mask trembled softly with each breath.

I knew what he was asking. My chest clenched as if an invisible hand had grabbed my heart and was crushing it.

"Mommy’s on her way," I forced a smile, my voice trembling. "You have to be strong, wait for her, okay?"

Beep—Beep—Beep—Beep!

A sharp alarm pierced the air.

Henry's face suddenly turned a frightening shade of purple, and his frail body convulsed violently on the bed.

Doctors and nurses surged into the room like a wave. Through the chaos, I saw Henry’s small hand fall limp.

"Time of death: 3:47 PM..." The attending doctor removed his stethoscope and pulled the white sheet over Henry’s face.

At that instant, the entire world fell silent.

My mother-in-law’s wails, the buzzing of machines, the voices of medical staff—all of it faded into an unbearable, deathly silence.

It felt like a dull knife had carved out a piece of my heart, but the pain was so deep, I couldn’t even cry out.

I didn't know how long I sat there before I finally came back to my senses.

Numbly, I opened Instagram to message Rina—but her latest post popped up first.

[The wind of freedom, the dream of cycling. Today’s 510 kilometers with Johann—what a beautiful memory. Life isn’t just about the struggles in front of us, but poetry and the distant horizon.]

Attached was a selfie of her on a mountaintop, with Johann flashing a peace sign in the background.

Scrolling down, there were more photos—her tending to Johann’s wounds by a stream. The two of them shared a bottle of water. A silhouette of them watching the sunrise, fingers interlocked.

The latest comment was from Johann.

[Next time, let’s challenge 1,314 kilometers?]

Rina had replied with a shy emoji and three kissy faces.

My hand trembled as I opened the chat box. I typed, deleted, typed again—then finally sent just three words.

[Henry is gone.]

One minute.

Five minutes.

Ten minutes.

Finally, the screen lit up with a reply.

[Don’t use something like this to mess with me. I don’t want anything ruining my vacation with Johann.]

Seeing her message, I vomited a mouthful of blood. My mother-in-law screamed in horror.

As darkness closed in, I clenched my teeth and forced out my last words before collapsing:

“Mom, I’m divorcing Rina.”

—

When I woke again, three days had passed.

As soon as I opened my eyes, I stumbled toward pediatrics.

"Henry, Daddy's here!"

My mother-in-law quickly stopped me.

"William... I’ve already arranged for Henry’s body to be kept in the morgue. I’ll take you there in a bit."

Then, as if suddenly remembering something, she looked at me with deep guilt.

"William, it’s our fault for raising Rina this way. If you want a divorce, I understand."

My gaze fell on her hair—once black, now streaked with white. A sharp pang struck my heart.

Twenty years ago, after my parents died in the line of duty, it was her who took me in and raised me as her own.

I still remember the early days at Sterling household, when nightmares kept me awake at night—she would cradle me gently, whispering comfort until I fell asleep.

The day I got into Stanford University, she smiled with more pride than anyone else.

Over the years, I treated her and her husband like my own parents. That was why I had tolerated Rina’s selfishness over again.

When she had a bad day at work, she’d take it out on me—and I silently endured it.

When she missed Henry’s birthday because she went shopping, I swallowed my resentment and said nothing.