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.

My body reacted before my brain could catch up. I grabbed Emma and drove full speed to the hospital, running through several red lights along the way.

As I pushed the gurney alongside the doctors into the ER, I ran straight into Jessica—who was carrying Oliver, mid-asthma attack.

She frowned but barely looked at me, then glanced at Emma's pale face on the gurney.

"Ryan, what are you doing now?" she said. "I just left the house, and now you two show up at the hospital. You'd go to any length to fake being sick, wouldn't you?"

She set Oliver down and took his hand. The boy was still a little short of breath, but his cheeks were rosy. He looked perfectly fine.

Mark, standing next to Jessica, sighed and shook his head. "Ryan, I hate to be the one to say this, but Jessica and I are divorced. You two are the married couple now. She and I only stay in touch because of our son."

His words sounded like advice, but the mockery in his voice was impossible to miss.

I didn't want to get into it with them. But Jessica grabbed my arm and raised her voice.

"What part of my warning didn't you understand? I left our daughter with you, and you can't even take care of her properly?"

In the struggle, Oliver reached over and yanked off Emma's wig. He pointed at her bald head and laughed.

"Uncle Ryan, why doesn't she have any hair? She's a bald girl! She looks so ugly."

My eyes went bloodshot. I shoved Oliver away, grinding my teeth. "Control your son!"

Then I turned to the doctor. "My daughter has acute leukemia. She's had a high fever and a nonstop nosebleed. Please—you have to save her."

Oliver had fallen flat on the floor after I pushed him. He was gasping and crying. Mark panicked, scooped him up, and started patting his back.

"Ryan!" Mark shouted. "Oliver has asthma—you know that!"

Jessica looked furious too. She stepped in front of the gurney, blocking it coldly, and stared at me.

"Apologize."

"No," I said. "No way. Jessica, Emma is really, seriously sick. If you don't care about her, fine—but stop coming around and making things worse."

None of this would have happened if it weren't for her. If it weren't for Mark and Oliver.

The doctor handed me a consent form to sign. Before I could even take the pen, Jessica snatched it out of my hand.

"You haven't apologized yet," she said. "And don't forget—I transferred all the money out of your bank account. You don't have a cent on you right now. So if you don't say you're sorry, I'm not paying for her surgery."

We were at a standstill when footsteps echoed down the hallway.

Then I heard a familiar voice and felt some of the tension leave my body.

"The medical bills are already paid. I'm Emma's mother."

Jessica's head whipped around. Her face went white.