Separation of Love: When He Chose His First Love

When I opened my eyes again, the sterile scent of disinfectant filled the room, reminding me where I was—back in a hospital. I bolted upright, my body aching from the sudden movement. Ignoring the nurse who rushed to my side, pleading for me to calm down, I ripped the IV out of my arm. I couldn't stay here. I didn't have time. My son was gone and there was no one else to collect his body.

I stumbled out of the room, feeling dizzy, but I pushed through the wave of nausea. As I made my way through the hospital hallways, I noticed something different. The building was swarming with police officers, their radios crackling with static as they moved with urgency. Tension hung in the air, thick and oppressive. I passed by the hospital director's office, the door slightly ajar, where I heard muffled sobs. Molly's voice—pleading, broken—drifted out. She was begging for forgiveness, for some sort of reprieve.

I kept walking, my footsteps heavy. Outside, a crowd of reporters clustered near the entrance, their cameras flashing like vultures circling a carcass. They pointed their lenses toward the chaos inside, hoping for a glimpse of scandal. Their presence made me feel sick, but I didn't stop. I couldn't. I headed straight to the reception, finalizing my discharge with a cold efficiency. Each step felt mechanical, like I was sleepwalking through a nightmare.

An hour later, I stood before the crematorium. The air was thick with the acrid scent of smoke and burning flesh. I watched in silence, helpless, as the furnace roared to life, consuming the small body of my son. The flames flickered, cruel and unforgiving and when they finally died down, all that was left was a small urn—so small. I clutched it to my chest, the smooth ceramic cool against my skin. This was all I had left of him.

I returned home to an unbearable silence. The house felt hollow, as if the very life had been sucked out of it. I couldn't bear the sight of his toys scattered around, his clothes still hanging in the closet. My hands trembled as I packed away his things, but when I came across his favorite Superman figurine, something inside me snapped. I collapsed onto the floor, shaking uncontrollably. Hot tears streamed down my face and sobs wracked my body. The grief I had been holding in, trying so desperately to suppress, exploded all at once. The pain was unbearable, crushing my chest, making it impossible to breathe.

The shrill ring of my phone broke through my sobs and with shaking hands, I answered. It was the hospital's disciplinary committee, promising a satisfactory resolution, but their words were hollow. Nothing could bring my son back. Numbly, I hung up and wiped my tears, my resolve hardening. I contacted a lawyer to prepare the divorce papers. I was done—done with Ayden, with this farce of a marriage. I needed to sever every last tie.

Overnight, the medical accident became headline news. It spread like wildfire, igniting outrage online. Molly, the ER director and even the hospital's director scrambled to issue public apologies. Their faces plastered the news, each video more insincere than the last. But Ayden—the real culprit—was conspicuously absent. There was no apology, no statement from him.

And then, I saw it. Iris's social media post. It was a photo, taken from a hospital room. In the background, I recognized the setting—another private hospital, one much more exclusive. The porridge on the table in front of her had been eaten clean, down to the bottom of the bowl. Ayden had made his choice. He had abandoned everything to be with her, to care for her.

I stared at the photo, my mind numb. I didn't even have the energy to laugh at the irony of it all. Instead, I took a screenshot of her post and uploaded it beneath the hospital's trending comments, signing my real name. Let the world see the truth. Then, I turned off my phone, cradling my son's ashes in my arms and left for the funeral.

At the service, I moved like a ghost, my actions mechanical and devoid of emotion. Friends and family offered their condolences, but their words were absurd, empty. I barely registered them. All I could focus on was the small urn in my hands, the only physical reminder of my son.

When it was time for the burial, the doors to the funeral hall burst open. The sound echoed through the room and everyone turned in shock as Ayden stormed in, Iris trailing behind him. His face was twisted with fury, his eyes wild as he roared, "What kind of stunt are you pulling this time? Who gave you permission to hold a funeral?" His voice reverberated in the silence, thick with accusation. "What's with that screenshot you posted online? Why is the hospital's disciplinary committee contacting me? What did you do yesterday?"

I stood there, holding my son's ashes, feeling the cold fury rise inside me. His words were nothing but noise. His betrayal had left me numb to his anger. He had chosen Iris over us, over everything and yet here he was, demanding explanations as if I owed him something.

"I've been busy saving lives!" Ayden's voice cracked with frustration. "What did I ever do to you? Iris just had surgery and even she found the strength to defend me, but you—my wife—you keep stirring up trouble for no reason! If you don't come with me to clear this up right now, we're getting a divorce!"

His words didn't sting the way they once would have. Instead, a cold smile curled at the corner of my lips. "Stunt?" I echoed, my voice barely above a whisper, yet laced with venom. "Ayden, even if I died, would you still think I'm putting on a show? Do you honestly think I'm playing along with this farce for you? Who do you think you are?"

For the first time in six years, I let him see the coldness in my eyes, the bitterness that had festered inside me. He recoiled, startled by the venom in my voice. His face twisted in rage and he let go of Iris, storming toward me with fists clenched. He grabbed my mourning clothes, yanking me toward him, ready to drag me out of the hall. But I shoved him off, clutching the urn tighter, my knuckles turning white with the force of my grip.

Iris, pale and fragile, stepped forward, pressing a hand against the fresh surgical wound in her side. Her voice was soft, pleading. "I know you're upset with me, but it's because of my health. I never meant to destroy your relationship. Be mad at me if you must, but don't ruin Ayden's career!"

Before I could even process her words, something inside me snapped. Without thinking, I swung my hand, slapping her hard across the face. The impact echoed through the hall and she stumbled backward, her frail body tumbling down the steps. The fresh incision from her transplant tore open and blood quickly soaked through her hospital gown, darkening the fabric.

Everything seemed to slow down in that moment. I barely had time to react before Ayden, blinded by rage, lunged at me. His foot collided with my stomach and I flew backward, the force sending me crashing into the table where my son's portrait was displayed. The glass frame shattered on impact, shards cutting into my skin. The urn slipped from my hands, hitting the floor with a sickening crack. My son's ashes scattered across the ground, a cloud of gray dust swirling in the air.

A scream ripped from my throat, raw and filled with anguish. I couldn't hold it back any longer. "Ayden, you're nothing but a beast!" My voice broke as I fumbled inside my coat, pulling out the crumpled piece of paper—the death certificate. I threw it in his face, the final, damning proof of his monstrous cruelty. "Get out of here!"