When Love Becomes a Cage (Melanie)

As I watched them walk away, everything suddenly clicked. No wonder Clyde never brought Kayla home. He was worried about her allergies to dog hair.

The young nurse looked like she was about to call out to him, but I stopped her.

"Ms. Crawford, is that your husband? That's not right," she said, clearly outraged.

The nurse was young, probably fresh out of college, and filled with a sense of justice.

I shook my head. "It's fine. We're getting a divorce. If he had stayed, I might've died sooner."

Anger could be a woman's worst enemy. Maybe it was because I'd been bottling everything up for the past three years, but my cancer came back.

The drama ended, and the doctors resumed planning the surgery. Perhaps feeling guilty about me, they checked my vitals and, finding them barely acceptable, scheduled the surgery.

Maybe it was my neighbor Brenda's cross that worked. The doctors had said my chances were slim since it was a recurrence, but the surgery went incredibly smoothly. I guessed God's blessing meant I got to live a bit longer.

I was suddenly grateful to Clyde for making me angry. If he had been too nice, I might've died sooner.

In the ICU, the pain was so intense that it was like my scalp was tingling. It wasn't my first surgery, but it hurt more, maybe because I knew there was no one to feel sorry for me. The first time I had surgery in Aurora, at least my mom was with me.

Thinking of her made me tear up. If only I had listened more to what she said, maybe she wouldn't have died so early.

The monitoring nurse gently wiped away my tears, whispering, "The surgery went well today. The pain from the anesthesia is normal. It'll pass." Sympathy was evident in her eyes. I could guess why. Today, I must've become the talk of the hospital, not because of the cut on my head, but because my husband left with his mistress, ignoring his wife, who was undergoing cancer surgery.

But I no longer cared. Surviving was all that mattered. In the days following the surgery, no one reached out to me, and I couldn't be bothered to care. The lady in the next bed and I shared a caregiver, saving me some money.

In the quiet of the night, I'd occasionally check my phone. Clyde never reached out. No calls, no messages. But I kept seeing updates from him and Kayla. Kayla loved to share by posting on social media a lot.

In the gossip group without her, she was the main topic.Ccontent © exclusive by Nô/vel(D)ra/ma.Org.

[Mr. Patterson spoils her rotten, huh? Because of an allergy, they're off to Westbridge for a vacation?]

[While we're slaving away here, they're out enjoying spa treatments by the sea!]

[We've got our troubles. Sure, but at least we're not as bad off as our boss's wife.]

[Can you believe Mr. Patterson is openly cheating, and she doesn't seem to care?]

Whenever they mentioned Clyde and Kayla, it brought me into the conversation. In their eyes, I was the woman with a cheating husband but putting up with everything for the sake of money.

But they seemed to have forgotten I

was once a sought-after designer at the company. And when I first joined, Immediately added this gossip group. They didn't know who I was then, so they shared everything with me. But it seemed no one remembered I was still there.

Just as I was about to turn off my phone, a call came from a business partner. I hadn't managed the project for months and had no idea what they wanted.

As soon as I answered, they launched into a tirade. "Ms. Crawford, if the Patterson Group doesn't want to continue our partnership, that's fine, but this delay is unacceptable."

"Mr. Patterson won't answer his phone, and no one at the company is stepping up. What about our project? Who's going to cover our losses?" The more they talked, the more agitated they became. Eventually, I understood Clyde had taken Kayla to Westbridge and neglected many responsibilities, including the project I used to oversee.

After letting them vent, I spoke weakly, "I'm sorry. I've just had surgery and am not handling company matters."

With years of experience, I realized appearing vulnerable was the best approach. It wasn't my fault, so why should I take the blame?

The caller seemed stunned, softening their tone, "You had surgery? You're in the hospital?"

"Yes. If you can't reach Mr.

Patterson, try contacting his

secretary. Sorry, but I can't help you."

I hung up the phone and glanced at the photos Kayla had shared Quietly, I turned off my phone.

Clyde was always thoughtful and careful to avoid peanuts due to my allergy even picking them out of

dishes. And taking Kayla to the beach to stop her dog hair allergy seemed just as reasonable.

The pain surged, and I bit my lip hard, telling myself it was nothing. But the next day, the pain worsened. The doctor said it might be a side effect of the recurrence.

The doctor suggested, "Ms. Crawford, about the medication, I still recommend using it for six months, given your history of recurrence. You can't always count on being lucky, right?"

The doctor's sincerity was evident, but the treatment might be beyond my means.

Overwhelmed by pain, I finally called Clyde.

But Kayla picked up the phone. "Hello? Clyde's in the shower. Can I take a message?"

Hearing Kayla's voice made the pain in my chest worse.