Chapter 2My Discounted Husband

"How could you possibly know that?"

Rachel didn't answer immediately. She stood up, brushed the dust off her jeans, and glanced through the glass at Noah.

"Let them stabilize him. Keep your phone charged. If you need anything, call me."

She pressed a business card into my palm, scooped up her own sleeping child, and walked toward the exit.

I looked down at the card.

Rachel Dawson, Administrative Assistant at Bennett Legal Group.

On the back, written in blue ink, was a single sentence: You are not alone.

Before I could even process what that meant, my phone vibrated in my hand.

It was the family group chat.

Carter had just posted a message, accompanied by a selfie of him standing outside the hospital entrance. He had put on a grim, concerned expression. The caption read:

Got the terrifying call at 1 AM. Dropped everything and rushed to the ER for my boy. A father's heart is breaking right now. Please pray for Noah's speedy recovery.

The replies flooded in instantly, full of sympathy.

His mother was first. My poor Carter. Working so hard to provide, and now you have to deal with this exhaustion.

His aunt chimed in. Where is Sarah? How does a mother let a child get that sick before going to the doctor?

His mother replied to the aunt. Exactly. Some people just don't know how to be mothers.

I gripped my phone so tightly my knuckles turned white, my fingernails digging sharp crescents into my palms.

Then, Carter's reply popped up.

Don't blame Sarah. It's hard for her to manage him alone. I'm already here at the hospital handling things. Don't worry, everyone.

He said he was already at the hospital.

I looked up and down the desolate, echoing corridor. It was 3:30 in the morning. He was nowhere to be seen.

That photo... I remembered taking that picture of him outside this very hospital last month when we brought Noah in for his vaccines. He had just slapped a dark, moody filter on it.

Twenty minutes later, he finally showed up.

He was wearing a rumpled t-shirt, his hair sticking up at odd angles.

"How is he?"

But those weren't his first words. Instead of asking about his son, he glanced toward the ICU window, pulled out his phone, and snapped a picture through the glass.

I watched him adjust the lighting, type out a caption, and post it to his Instagram story. The whole performance took less than thirty seconds.

Only after sliding the phone back into his pocket did he finally look at me.

"Did you figure out the money?"

"I did."

"How?"

"I pawned the ring."

All the color drained from his face instantly.

"Where did you pawn it? Which shop?"

"The gold exchange two blocks down."

"How much did they give you?"

I stared dead into his eyes. For the first time in my life, I felt like I was looking at a complete stranger.

"Take a guess."

"Sarah, don't play games with me. That ring... you need to go buy it back right now."

"Why?"

"That is the symbol of our marriage! You just pawned it like it meant nothing? Do you have any sentimental value in your bones at all?"

He completely avoided the topic of the price. He didn't ask what they appraised it at. He went straight for the emotional guilt trip.

A dry, bitter laugh bubbled up in my throat.

"I couldn't pawn it."

"They wouldn't take it?" His Adam's apple bobbed nervously. "Why not?"

"The owner said..." I paused, ultimately deciding to swallow the truth for a moment. "He said it was too late and the appraiser wasn't in until tomorrow."

Carter visibly deflated, his tense shoulders dropping two inches.

"Okay. Good. Don't go back tomorrow. I'll take it to the boutique this weekend to get it professionally cleaned and polished instead."

He had never once mentioned getting it cleaned. I had worn it for three years straight without him bringing it up. Tonight, he was suddenly terrified.

Because he knew an appraiser would expose him.

"What did the doctor say about Noah?" he asked, changing the subject.

"They need to keep him under observation for at least three days."

"Three days? How much is a day in the ICU?"

"About two thousand dollars a day."

"Two grand? So three days is six thousand? Plus the deposit... that's over ten grand!"

"Carter, he almost died tonight."

"I know, but look at him, he's sleeping peacefully now! Kids bounce back fast. There's no reason to bleed money staying in a hospital when he can rest at home."

He let out a loud yawn, slumped onto the vinyl waiting room bench, and pulled out his phone to start scrolling.

I stood by the glass door, watching Noah's little chest rise and fall faintly.

My phone lit up. It was Carter's mother.

"Sarah, Carter told me the baby was admitted?"

"Yes, Maggie. He had severe febrile seizures."

"I've told you before, you coddle him too much. If a kid has a fever, you put them in a lukewarm bath. Why do you insist on running to the hospital and burning through Carter's hard-earned money?"

"Maggie, his temperature was a hundred and five. He was convulsing."

"Don't exaggerate. Carter ran a fever of a hundred and four when he was a toddler. I gave him some ice water and Motrin, and he was running around the next day. Look at how much stress you're putting on my son. Dragging him out of bed in the middle of the night when he has to work tomorrow."

Carter was sitting five feet away. He heard every single word echoing from my phone speaker. He didn't say a syllable to defend me.

"Next time the boy gets the sniffles, just watch him at home. Carter is under a lot of financial pressure. You need to be a more supportive wife."

"Okay," I said quietly, and ended the call.

When I turned around, Carter had already fallen asleep on the bench. His phone screen was still illuminated, showing a lock screen photo of him and Noah. A stack of unread notifications piled up at the bottom.

I didn't snoop. Not because I trusted him, but because I was terrified of what else I might not be able to handle tonight.

But Rachel's question kept looping in my mind like a broken record.

Does your husband always give you a discount?

How could she possibly know our private financial dynamic?

I reached out toward his glowing phone, then pulled my hand back.

On the other end of the bench, Carter shifted in his sleep and mumbled something into his jacket collar.

"Seventy percent... is enough."