Chapter 3

The next day, my daughter’s fever climbed to 103.6°F.

I rushed into the ER with her in my arms.

Registration.

Waiting in line.

My whole body was shaking.

The doctor took off his stethoscope and frowned.

“The baby is malnourished and severely underweight. Her immune system is very weak.”

He looked up at me, his tone stern.

“A newborn in this condition is in serious danger. What have you two been doing?”

I opened my mouth.

No words came out.

What had we been doing?

Together, my daughter and I lived on two dollars a month.

I called Lucas.

He actually came.

Hope rose in my chest.

For the first time in three years of marriage, I begged him.

“She needs special formula and nutritional supplements. Can we stop drawing mystery bags? Can you just give me a normal allowance?”

He looked at me for a few seconds.

Then he took a card from his pocket and tossed it over.

“There’s two thousand on it. That’s enough.”

“It’s not enough. The doctor said follow-up tests and—”

His voice suddenly went cold.

“Elena, did you already burn through the $3.8 million? Now two thousand isn’t enough either?”

“When you set up that row of mystery bags to trap me, did you ever think this day would come?”

“I didn’t set up those mystery bags!”

For my daughter’s sake, I finally raised my voice.

“My parents did it behind my back. They wanted Sophia to marry into a better family. It had nothing to do with me!”

Lucas froze for a second.

Then he laughed.

“Elena, you’ll tell any lie for money.”

“First you lie about the baby being sick. Now you’re making up stories.”

He looked down at me, his eyes full of disgust.

“You had a baby and now you think you can negotiate with me? You know perfectly well whether that child is really sick!”

Then his phone rang.

The name on the screen was Sophia.

He answered, and his tone immediately softened.

“You’re here? Which exam room? I’ll be right there.”

After hanging up, he didn’t even look at me before turning away.

So he hadn’t come to the hospital for me or our daughter at all.

He was here to accompany Sophia’s baby for a checkup.

I stood in the hallway, holding my baby as she wailed at the top of her lungs, and watched his back disappear around the corner.

At the hospital entrance.

“Elena.”

Sophia’s voice came from behind me.

The baby in her arms had a round, healthy face.

He wore a Burberry onesie.

She glanced at my daughter, thin and sallow in my arms.

Something flashed through her eyes.

Then she took a can of formula from the nanny’s diaper bag and handed it to me.

“My baby can’t finish all of this. Take it.”

“Lucas felt sorry for us—a widow and her fatherless baby. He bought a whole year’s supply.”

I looked at the can.

One hundred and eighty dollars each.

My daughter’s entire monthly allowance couldn’t even cover one scoop of her child’s formula.

I clenched my fist and accepted her charity.

That night, I called my mother.

“Mom, the baby needs to be admitted to the hospital. Could you lend me some money for now?”

The other end was silent for a few seconds.

“Sophia just gave birth too. She needs money as well. Go ask Lucas.”

“Mom…”

“Enough. Stop calling all the time. Sophia needs rest. Don’t bother her.”

Then she hung up.

Late that night, I fell asleep on the sofa with my daughter in my arms.

At some point, a blanket appeared over me.

Half-awake, I saw Lucas bend down, moving gently, as though afraid to wake anyone.

But the next morning, a new row of mystery bags sat on the dining table.

He sat across from me, drinking coffee, and lifted his chin toward them.

“Pick.”

I looked at the bags, and suddenly the whole thing felt utterly pointless.

“Lucas, I’m tired. I won’t draw anymore.”

His hand paused around his cup.

Then he looked up, his gaze sharp and assessing.

“What new trick did you come up with to ask for money? Last time you said the baby was sick. What’s the act this time?”

I didn’t answer.

I turned away to make my daughter a bottle with the formula I’d accepted as charity from Sophia.

My phone vibrated in my pocket.

I took it out and glanced at it.

Clara had sent a message.

“Elena, there’s something I don’t know if I should tell you…”

Clara was still typing her next message.

In the living room, my daughter started crying again.

The number on the thermometer jumped.

104.2°F.

I switched off the screen, picked up my baby, and rushed out the door.