Signing My Own Critical Condition Form

The surgical light was cold and harsh. I lay on the delivery bed, consciousness wavering amid searing pain. The doctor's urgent voice cut through: "The mother is hemorrhaging severely; the situation is critical. Where are her relatives? We need their signatures immediately!" The nurse rushed out and came back empty-handed: "We can't reach Mr. Thomas." My nails sank deep into my palm, the chill in my chest far worse than the pain in my body. Before the anesthesia took hold, I mustered all my strength and hoarsely said, "I'll sign myself." The pen felt unusually heavy. The three words "Critical Condition Form" flickered before my eyes. I signed "Mona Goodwin"; each stroke felt like severing my connection to the world. The child was finally delivered, its loud cry resonating through the operating room. But I sank into the depths of darkness, my final thought before closing my eyes: Moses Thomas, where the hell are you? It was only on the third day after surgery that I fully regained consciousness. My mother, eyes red-rimmed, fed me water: "Mona, you scared me to death." My voice was dry: "Where is Moses?" Mom's hand faltered: "He... had an urgent matter at work." I looked out the window; the gray-white sky mirrored my heart perfectly. On the day of discharge, Moses arrived, dressed in a neatly pressed suit, carrying a faint scent of cologne. "Mona, I'm sorry, I truly couldn't leave that day." He took the wheelchair from the nurse. I silently gazed at my son, sleeping in the crib. Moses leaned in, trying to get close, but I turned my face away. Upon returning home, a pair of unfamiliar red stilettos lay by the door. That is not mine. A heavy weight sank in my heart. Moses looked uneasy: "June has recently encountered some trouble and is temporarily staying in the guest room." The name June Hill has been lodged deeply in my heart for seven years. In the living room, she wore my pink fuzzy slippers and used my favorite mug. Seeing me, she smiled and said, "Mona, you're back. Congratulations—the baby is truly adorable." She was so natural that she seemed like the mistress of this home. I looked at Moses; he avoided my gaze and took the cup from June's hand. "You haven't recovered yet; don't rush yourself with these things." His tone held a tenderness I hadn't heard in a long time. My heart clenched as if gripped by invisible hands; holding the child, I went straight upstairs. Moses followed close behind. Closing the door, he hurriedly explained, "June was being harassed by her ex-boyfriend and had nowhere to go, so I just helped out, only for a few days." I put down the child and turned to him. "Moses." "Where were you when I was signing the Critical Condition Form in the operating room?" His expression shifted faintly. "That day was June's birthday. She was so depressed. I was afraid she might do something rash..." "So, you were with her on her birthday, weren't you?" My voice was unnervingly calm. "While I was giving birth to your child, fighting on the edge between life and death." He stepped forward, trying to grasp my hand: "Mona, I didn't mean it, I know I was wrong, from now on..." "There is no from now on." I walked to the desk, took out the divorce agreement I had prepared long ago: "Sign it." Moses's pupils contracted sharply at the sight of the agreement: "Are you insane? Over something like this?" "Something like this?" I repeated softly, tears streaming as I smiled. "Moses, seven years." "I stood by you, building everything from scratch, enduring bankruptcy, while my parents sold their house to help repay your debts." "I nearly died from a difficult childbirth, and you were celebrating your first love's birthday." "Now she has moved in, using my belongings, and you call this 'no big deal'?" He was speechless, his guilt swiftly replaced by anger: "Are you really going to be so petty? June is only staying temporarily!" "Then let her stay forever." I picked up the pen and signed my name on the agreement, severing seven years of love. "Mona!" Moses snatched the agreement and tore it to pieces. "I won't divorce you! The child is still young—you can't be so selfish!" I looked at the paper scraps scattered on the floor, as if seeing our shattered marriage. "You don't have to sign. But I will sue you, citing your infidelity during the marriage and your cohabitation with another while I was critically ill." "Then, the whole city will know about your scandal. Think it through." His face went pale instantly, staring at me in disbelief. The Mona Goodwin who loved him with all her heart had long since died on the operating table. The woman I am now is merely a mother, a woman who will no longer wrong herself.