Never divorce a wife who loves you deeply

"Quinn?"

The voice was thin. Hesitant.

I peeled my eyelids open. The harsh fluorescent lights burned my retinas.

My mother stood at the foot of my hospital bed. She clutched her leather handbag against her chest. My father hovered near the doorway, refusing to step fully into the room.

They never visited our house. They avoided me. Seeing my face only reminded them of the daughter they actually wanted.

"Mom," I rasped. My throat felt like sandpaper. "Dad. You came."

Neither of them moved to hug me.

Kevin stood by the window, his arms crossed. He stared out at the parking lot. Mike sat on the floor, playing with a toy truck.

"Why is she hurt this badly, Kevin?" my mother asked. She gestured toward my bandaged head and the cast on my arm. "The police called us. They said it was a minor roll-over. You and Mike don't have a single scratch."

Kevin finally turned around. His expression remained entirely blank.

"I had to make a choice," he stated.

"A choice?" My father gripped the doorframe. "Between what? She is your wife."

"I secured Sarah's necklace." Kevin pointed to his jacket pocket. "The velvet box was on the passenger seat. When the SUV lost traction, I grabbed the box and braced myself over it. Quinn was in the back."

My chest tightened. The monitor beside my bed beeped a little faster.

"You saved a piece of jewelry over your wife?" my mother asked. Not yelling. Not angry. Just curious.

"It belonged to Sarah," Kevin replied. "I wasn't going to let it get crushed in the dash. Quinn knows how much that necklace means to this family."

"She hit her head on the window," my father said, finally looking at me. "The nurses said she has fractured ribs."

"She wasn't wearing her seatbelt correctly," Kevin lied. "I did what I had to do."

Before my mother could respond, Mike dropped his toy truck. The plastic clattered loudly against the linoleum.

"That woman is only hurt, Grandma," the four-year-old chirped. He pointed a chubby finger at me. "My mom's stuff is the most important. Dad said so."

Silence swallowed the room.

I stared at my mother. I waited for her to scold him. I waited for my father to step forward and tell this child that a living, breathing human being mattered more than a dead woman's necklace.

My mother smoothed her purse strap. She cleared her throat.

"Well," she murmured, glancing away from me. "At least the necklace is safe."

My father nodded. "It's all we have left of her."

A sharp pain pierced my chest. It hurt worse than the fractured ribs.

"Are you serious?" I whispered. "I could have died."

"But you didn't," Kevin shot back. "You always survive, Quinn. Sarah didn't get that luxury."

"I didn't cause her crash, Kevin."

"Keep your voice down," my mother scolded. "Don't upset your husband. He is grieving."

"It's been three years, Mom!"

"And it will hurt forever," she snapped.

I turned my head toward the window. I squeezed my eyes shut. Hot tears slipped down my cheeks, soaking into the stiff hospital pillow. I didn't make a sound. Crying loudly only irritated them.

Footsteps shuffled toward the door.

"We should go, David," my mother whispered. "Being here... the smell of the hospital... it reminds me too much of the night we lost Sarah."

"I know, Martha. Let's head home."

The door clicked shut. They didn't even say goodbye to me.

I opened my eyes. Kevin was already lifting Mike into his arms.

"We're leaving too," Kevin announced. "I have to get Mike his dinner."

He didn't ask how I felt. He didn't ask what the doctors said.

"Kevin," I croaked.

He paused at the door. "What?"

"I am your wife."

"And I left some paperwork on the table for you." He didn't look back. "Read it."

The door swung shut again. I was completely alone.

The quiet room amplified the memories I had spent years trying to bury. Every desperate attempt to build a family played out in my mind.

"I made your favorite cupcakes, Mike!" I had smiled, placing the tray on the counter just two weeks ago.

"They taste like dirt! You’re not my mom!" He had shoved the tray onto the floor.

I had knelt in the frosting, picking up the pieces.

"Don’t yell at him," Kevin had snapped, stepping over the mess. "Stop trying so hard, Quinn. You will never measure up to Sarah. Don't force him to love a substitute."

A substitute. That was all I ever was. A placeholder for a ghost.

I pushed myself up against the pillows. Fire shot through my torso. I gritted my teeth and ignored the agony.

A thick manila folder rested on the rolling tray table next to my bed.

I reached out with my good arm and flipped it open.

The bold black letters across the top page screamed at me.

**Divorce Settlement Agreement.**

He had prepared it long before the crash. He brought it to the hospital and left it here while I was unconscious. He wanted me gone.

I stared at the signature line.

For three years, I took the blame for Sarah's death. I swallowed the insults. I cooked the meals. I raised a boy who spat on my shoes, all because I thought my endless patience would eventually heal their broken hearts.

They didn't want to heal. They wanted a punching bag.

I picked up the blue plastic pen resting on the tray. My fingers didn't tremble. My tears stopped falling.

I pressed the ink to the paper. I signed my name. Quick. Sharp. Final.

I tossed the pen aside. I reached into the drawer of the bedside cabinet and pulled out my cracked cell phone. The screen flickered to life.

I opened my contacts. I scrolled past Kevin. I scrolled past my parents.

I stopped at a name I hadn't dialed in over a year.

Oscar.

He was the heir to the largest shipping conglomerate in the city. Wealthy. Ruthless. And the only person who ever saw through Sarah's perfect facade.

I tapped the green icon. The line rang twice.

"Quinn?" The deep, smooth voice echoed through the speaker.

"Oscar."

"I didn't expect to hear from you."

"The marriage alliance you mentioned before," I said, my voice steadying. "I agree to it."

A low chuckle rumbled on the other end. "What changed your mind?"

"I'm done playing the villain for a family that hates me."

"Good." Oscar paused. The sound of a lighter flicking echoed over the line. "Where are you?"

"City General Hospital. Room 412."

"Pack whatever you have. I am sending my driver."

"I don't have anything to pack."

"Even better. We start fresh."

"How soon can he get here?" I asked.

"Twenty minutes. Don't leave the room."

I ended the call. I stared at the signed divorce papers. The heavy, suffocating weight I had carried for three years vanished.