Jessica Morrison had been divorced from her ex-husband, Mark Tatum, for five years, yet they still shared a joint bank account.

She made over six figures a year, but every time her salary hit her account, she transferred every last cent to him.

"Even though we're divorced, we still have a child together. I can't just turn my back on him."

For years, she used that as her excuse.

She went to take care of her and Mark's son while her own water had already broken. Because of that, our daughter, Emma, was born with health issues.

Later, when Emma had a medical emergency and needed surgery, Jessica gave all the money to Mark's son instead.

That time, I asked for a divorce. But she begged me through her tears.

"They're both my children. You have to understand—I'm a mother. I promise it will never happen again."

For the sake of our young daughter, I gave in.

But this time, Emma got sick with a high fever and was diagnosed with acute leukemia.

When I went to pay the bill at the hospital, I was told the card had been declined. The bank account that should have had hundreds of thousands of dollars was completely empty. That's when I found out Jessica had transferred all the money again.

Our daughter was delirious from the fever, holding my hand.

"Daddy, does Mommy not want me anymore?"

I comforted her as best I could, but deep down, I knew—maybe it was time to find my daughter a new mother.

After Jessica Morrison hung up on me again, I stopped calling.

Our daughter, Emma Channing, was curled up on the hospital bed in the hallway. She pointed at the payment window across the way and looked up at me.

"Daddy, is that Mommy?"

I looked over and sure enough, there was Jessica, holding her precious son in her arms.

When our eyes met, she froze for a second. Then she set the boy down in Mark's arms, whispered a few instructions, and walked toward me.

The moment she saw our daughter, she let out a little sigh and immediately turned on me.

"Ryan, you know how weak Emma is. You left her out here in the hallway on purpose? Is the hospital out of rooms?"

I bit back a bitter laugh. The anger in my chest was burning hotter by the second.

"Emma has a high fever. I called you dozens of times. Why didn't you pick up? You drained every cent from my paycheck—thousands of dollars. And you really think this is about whether there's a room?"

My voice carried, and people started to stare. Jessica's face went pale, like I'd hit a nerve.

She lowered her voice and warned me, "We're in a hospital. Don't you have any shame?"

Then she knelt down, felt Emma's forehead, and smirked.

"Ryan, if you're going to lie, at least make it believable. She doesn't have a fever.

"I'm very busy. Oliver started coughing again yesterday. I don't have time for your little show."

She pulled a card out of her purse and shoved it into my hand. "There's a thousand dollars on this card. If she's really sick, use it."

The card was cold in my palm. But not as cold as the feeling spreading through my chest.

I gripped it tightly, disgusted by how ridiculous this was. A thousand dollars wouldn't even cover a single month of our daughter's treatment.

The diagnosis report for acute leukemia was still in my pocket. Even if I showed it to Jessica right now, she'd just accuse me of putting on an act.

For five years of marriage, she handed over every paycheck to her ex-husband—and she cleaned out mine too. All for the sake of that "sickly" son of hers.

I looked at Emma, her face sallow and tired, and felt like my heart was being ripped apart.

When I didn't say anything, Jessica frowned. "Kids get sick. She'll be fine in a few days. One grand isn't enough?"

My voice cracked as I asked her, "She's your daughter too.

"You've got a son with asthma. Have you ever once thought about your other child—the one born with chronic health problems?

"I've covered every household expense and every medical bill for Emma for years. And you? What exactly have you contributed to this family? Besides subsidizing your ex-husband and his son? Then why did you bother divorcing him?

"Jessica, Emma is like this because of you. Because of you, goddamn it."

A loud crack echoed through the hallway.

Before I even finished speaking, Jessica slapped me hard across the face.

"Ryan, have you no sense of how a father should act?"

Her voice was so loud that everyone in the corridor started whispering. Emma burst into tears.

The crying clearly irritated Jessica. She jabbed her finger hard into our daughter's head.

"What are you crying about? You're way too young to be this manipulative. Stop faking."

I shoved Jessica away and pulled my sobbing daughter into my arms.

That's when Mark Tatum walked over.

"Hey, Jess, there you are."

His eyes landed on me and Emma, and he looked surprised. "Emma's sick? Why is she in the hallway? Are there no rooms available?"

Mark's presence seemed to calm Jessica down a little. She forced herself to stop glaring at me.

"She's faking it," Jessica said. "Don't worry. How did Oliver's tests go?"

When she heard he was fine, she let out a huge sigh of relief. She tapped Oliver on the nose.

"Let's go home, baby. Mommy's making your favorite steak."

She never looked at me or Emma again.

My cheek throbbed. And watching the three of them walk away, I felt the tears burning in my eyes.

After Emma was out of danger, I checked her out of the hospital.

When we got home, I opened the door to find the place completely trashed. The shattered remains of our family portrait were still on the floor—Jessica had thrown it there a week ago after we got into a fight.

She'd been divorced from Mark for five years. Our daughter was five years old. But in all that time, Jessica had never stopped putting the father and son first.

"Daddy, will you shave my hair for me?"

Emma held up the electric clippers to me. The chemotherapy she needed would make her hair fall out anyway. She'd always been so proud of her hair, but at this point, there was no saving it.

"Daddy... will my hair ever grow back?"

Soft strands of hair fell to the floor one by one. I could see the tears glistening in the corners of my little girl's eyes. My heart ached.

It all traced back to that one phone call from Mark. That was the moment Emma's health took its first hit.

Jessica was eight months pregnant at the time—two months away from her due date. But the second she heard that Oliver had been hospitalized for an asthma attack, she was frantic to get to him.

I tried to stop her. "You're pregnant. The hospital has doctors. He'll be fine."

"He's not your son, so of course you don't care!"

Jessica shoved me away and grabbed a pair of scissors, pressing them against her own belly. "If you don't let me go right now, I swear I'll kill myself and the baby together."

For her sake, for the baby's sake, I gave in. I drove her to the hospital.

Her water broke on the way there—from the stress. Even with her IV bag still hanging, she insisted on going to care for Oliver. She waited two full days before finally going to deliver.

Because of that, Emma was born premature. She came into the world with chronic health problems. She'd been fragile and sickly from her very first breath.

I remember standing there, completely drained, looking at my daughter through the glass of the NICU—her tiny body purple and struggling. And I asked Jessica for a divorce.

"If you love him that much, why did you even leave him?"

But she refused. She grabbed my hand tightly, her face pale and weak from just giving birth.

"Ryan, I never meant for this to happen. I was just so scared for Oliver. I promise—I won't talk to Mark again. Please. Our daughter is so little. She can't grow up without a mother."

As much as I wanted to walk away, every time I looked at Emma, my resolve crumbled. I believed Jessica. For a long time, she really did seem to cut contact with Mark. I almost convinced myself she'd changed.

Then one night, Emma had a dangerously high fever. And while my daughter was burning up, Jessica sneaked out to celebrate Oliver's birthday.

I found out because Mark sent me photos.

Emma's fever wouldn't break. She ended up rushed into emergency care.

After that, the distance between Jessica and me only grew. I stopped caring what she did with Mark and Oliver. I just wanted my daughter to survive.

For five years, Emma and I got used to Jessica not being there.

But this—the leukemia diagnosis—this broke me. I knew there was no future for Jessica and me anymore.

Emma's head was completely shaved now. She looked at herself in the mirror, her eyes red, and started crying again. I held her and realized how much weight she'd lost.

After I got her to sleep, I pulled out my phone. Jessica had posted a photo from a high-end restaurant. She was celebrating Oliver being fine—with Mark.

I let out a bitter breath. Then I opened the text thread I'd been ignoring.

And I called my divorce attorney.

"Start drawing up the papers. I'm taking full custody of my daughter."

Jessica didn't come home for several days.

At first, Emma asked about her every single day. But eventually, she stopped bringing it up. It was like she'd forgotten Jessica existed.

Then, on Emma's birthday, I took the day off so I could stay home and celebrate with her properly.

All the hospital visits and medications had worn my daughter down to skin and bones. Every time I looked at her, I couldn't help but cry.

Suddenly, there was noise at the front door. Emma's head shot up.

Jessica walked in carrying a birthday cake. She kicked off her heels without a second thought, didn't mention where she'd been, and just smiled.

"Emma, Mommy's here to celebrate your birthday."

Honestly, I didn't want Jessica anywhere near our daughter. But I knew what Emma wanted more than anything was her mother's attention. Sure enough, the moment Jessica walked in, some color actually returned to Emma's pale little face.

Jessica pulled a dress out of a gift bag. "I bought you a present, sweetie. Do you like it? Go on, try it on."

She tried to pull the dress over Emma's head. But Emma couldn't get her arms through the sleeves—they were covered in needle marks from all the IVs.

I stopped Jessica, my voice hard. "If it doesn't fit, don't force it. Can't you see you bought the wrong size?"

Jessica's smile vanished instantly. Her brows snapped together.

She slapped my hand away. "What's your problem, Ryan? I came all the way back to celebrate her birthday, and you're going to complain about the gift? Do you know how much this dress cost? Two hundred dollars. That's more than good enough for her."

She grabbed the dress again, determined to force it onto Emma. Emma was crying in pain.

I'd had enough. I shoved Jessica away. She had money to buy expensive dresses, but couldn't be bothered to pay for her own daughter's medical treatment.

In the struggle, Emma's wig fell off. Her bare, bald head was completely exposed.

Jessica stood up in a flash, pointed at both of us, and started screaming. "Are you two trying to drive me crazy? Is this some kind of act? Why would you shave your head—just to play the victim?"

Emma covered her head and sobbed loudly. I held her tight, gritting my teeth, and threw that too-small dress straight into the trash.

"Why did you even come back? You don't even know your own daughter's clothing size! Do you have any idea why she lost her hair? Have you ever once asked about her?"

Jessica crossed her arms over her chest, completely unmoved. "Oliver is still at home sick right now. I shouldn't have bothered coming back to celebrate Emma's birthday in the first place. All she knows how to do anymore is play the victim."

Emma's crying stopped abruptly. She looked up at Jessica, stunned.

A sharp ringtone cut through the silence. I didn't even have to guess—it was Mark. It never failed. Every time Jessica came home, he always found some excuse to call her back.

I don't know what he said on the other end, but Jessica turned to leave.

Emma reached out and grabbed the hem of her shirt, her voice trembling. "Mommy... you promised you'd stay for my birthday..."

Jessica yanked her hand away without a second thought. The cake on the table went flying. It hit the floor, the frosting splitting open—and that's when I saw the mango pieces inside.

Emma was deathly allergic to mango. She couldn't eat a single bite.

Any last shred of hope I had left died right there.

I let out a long, heavy sigh and picked up Emma. "If you walk out that door, don't bother coming back."

Jessica glanced back at me and let out a cold laugh. "I paid for half this house. I'll come and go as I please. Ryan, cut me some slack. Oliver's asthma is really bad right now. He can't be left alone."

She rushed out the words, then slammed the door behind her.

I stood there frozen for a long time. That's when I realized Emma's quiet sniffles had stopped completely.

I looked down. Her face was ghostly white. Blood was dripping from her nose.