A Wife's Fight

The day Andy got discharged, the sky was dark and heavy with clouds. The wind wrapped fine drizzle against the car window. He held a rabbit doll, worn from washing, his little face still pale from being sick, leaning into me, softly humming. Morgan Carter parked the car under the apartment building and paused for a moment as he opened the door. He touched the cigarette pack in his pocket, then shoved it back, his voice carefully gentle: "Blair, for you and Andy, I quit smoking after ten years." I glanced down at the empty cigarette packs scattered on the passenger-side floor mat, feeling not even a shred of happiness. Instead, he reached out and unbuckled his seatbelt, his voice cold like the rain outside: "Morgan Carter, let's get a divorce." He froze for two seconds, then furiously kicked the car door. "Blair Scott, what the hell is wrong with you? Weren't you the one nagging me every day to quit smoking? Now you're acting crazy again?" "Can't you even think about Andy? He just got out of the hospital, and you want a divorce now?" I held Andy tightly and walked down the hallway without stopping. "Just think about how Andy ended up in the hospital in the first place." Behind me came a slammed door, banging so hard it flickered the hallway's motion sensor lights on and off. Andy was woken up, rubbing his eyes as he asked me, "Mom, didn't Dad say he was going to pick me up from the hospital? Why didn't he come upstairs with us?" I knelt down and smoothed out his wrinkled collar. It felt like my heart was being pierced over and over with tiny needles, the pain so sharp I couldn't even speak. It's been a full two weeks since Andy was admitted to the hospital. Morgan Carter has only come once, and that was just because his company was discussing a deal near the hospital, so he stopped by for ten minutes. I've called him countless times. Either no one answers, or when he does, it's his impatient voice: "Blair Scott, stop bothering me, I'm busy. Andy has nurses taking care of him. Why are you even worrying about this?" The only time he ever reached out on his own was to ask me for the family bank card password. At the end, he casually said, "Once Andy is out of the hospital, I'll come to get him." That one sentence stuck with Andy for a whole ten days. Last night, he was so excited he couldn't sleep, holding my hand and saying, "Mom, Dad's coming to get me tomorrow. I want to tell him I've been good in the hospital." But today, he didn't even get a clear look at Dad's shadow before shrinking back, scared by the sound of the door slamming. "Dad's got things to deal with," I said, picking Andy up and slowly making our way upstairs. "Once he's done, he'll come to see Andy." Even I don't believe what I'm saying. I remember three years ago, Morgan Carter knelt outside my building for three whole days and nights. Back then, he was just a struggling startup guy, holding my hand and saying, "Blair Scott, as long as you marry me, I promise I'll treat you right. You have nasal issues, I'll quit smoking immediately—I swear I won't let you suffer even a little." I was completely head over heels at that time. My family had already arranged a well-matched marriage for me. Compared to the Chen family, the Scott Group was worlds apart. But I was blinded by his sweet words, secretly got pregnant with Andy, and eventually my family cut off my financial support, forcing me to register our marriage. When we first got married, he really acted like a decent guy. He came straight home from work every day, brought me my favorite strawberries, and even washed my socks. But everything changed after Andy was born. Andy was born with asthma, and the doctor said he couldn't be around cigarette smoke. Yet Morgan Carter kept smoking right in front of us. When I tried to reason with him, he just said, "What's wrong with a man smoking? Don't make such a big deal out of it." Later, as his company grew bigger, he came home less and less. Along with the smell of smoke, there was now the scent of some unfamiliar perfume on him.