The Blind Box That Cost Me Everything Chapter 02

The Blind Box That Cost Me Everything Chapter 02

Discharge day. I packed everything before sunrise.

My daughter wore the only new outfit she owned. A gift from my best friend.

I sat on the edge of the bed, holding her, waiting for Gavin.

He sent a text instead.

[Driver’s on the way. I’m with Bianca. She’s being discharged today too and has no one to help.]

It made no sense. And it was exactly what I expected.

Ever since Bianca’s husband died, Gavin had been stepping in like it was his job.

I read the message twice, then closed it without replying.

The driver showed up on time. The car was spotless.

My daughter started fussing. She was hungry.

I pulled out her bottle. The driver’s eyes found mine in the rearview mirror, and he shifted in his seat.

“I’m really sorry, Mrs. Ellison. Mr. Ellison’s orders: no food or drinks in the car.”

I stared at him.

“She’s a newborn. I’m just feeding her. I won’t make a mess.”

“Please, Mrs. Ellison. I can’t. He was very clear.”

I put the bottle back in my bag and held my daughter closer.

She screamed the whole ride home. I bounced her against my chest, patting her back, whispering things that didn’t help.

At home, I made the mistake of opening my phone. Bianca had posted a video.

She was in Gavin’s passenger seat, popping cherries from a box, laughing between bites.

Cherry juice stained her fingers, the dashboard, everywhere.

Gavin was behind the wheel, stealing glances at her with that soft look on his face.

My parents were in the back seat. Mom held a bottle to Bianca’s baby’s lips while Dad caught the drool with a little towel, beaming like a man who had everything he ever wanted.

One big happy family. Just not mine.

I swiped the video away.

The doorbell rang that afternoon.

Bianca stood outside, her round, rosy baby cradled in her arms.

She peered past me at the crib in the living room and let out a laugh.

“Oh my God, Maren. That crib? Isn’t Gavin, like… loaded?”

I didn’t answer.

She pulled a bag from her purse and held it out.

“Some newborn clothes my baby is already too big for. Don’t say no, okay? They’re really nice quality.”

“Gavin picked them all out, actually. Spent thousands on each piece.”

She looked down at my daughter and tilted her head. “Maren… is she eating okay? She looks so tiny.”

I took the bag. “Thanks” was all I could get out.

I shut the door and threw the bag in the trash.

Talia Monroe called that night.

“I saw Bianca’s video. I’m literally shaking. I’m so mad. She posted that on purpose. You know that, right? And Gavin? You almost bled out giving birth, and he pulls this?”

“Don’t you dare suffer in silence. Tell me what the baby needs. I’ll handle it.”

“Talia, thank you.”

“Stop thanking me. You know you’ll always come first with me.”

My eyes burned. At least I still had one person in my corner.

I hung up and started packing.

A few changes of clothes for my daughter and me. Our documents. I zipped the bag shut and pushed it to the back of the closet.

Gavin was leaning against the bedroom doorframe. I had no idea how long he’d been standing there.

He scoffed. “If you need money for clothes, just ask. You don’t have to put on the whole sad-wife act.”

I didn’t turn around.

Then his arms came around me from behind. His chin settled on top of my head.

He reeked of whiskey. When he spoke, his voice was barely above a whisper.

“Come on, Maren. Don’t be like this.”

For a second, I let myself remember. He used to hold me just like this.

Once, I got caught in the rain and spiked a fever. He drove through the night from two states away to get to me.

He pulled me into his arms and said, “You never have to wait out the rain alone again.”

Now, the same arms were around me only because he was drunk.

The man who once drove all night for me couldn’t even show up when his daughter and I left the hospital.

I peeled his hands off me. “I’m not making a fuss.”

At three in the morning, my daughter started crying.

I picked her up and tried to feed her, but she pulled away after a few swallows, wailing. I didn’t have enough milk.

I tore through every cabinet. No formula.

I checked my account. Nine dollars and ninety cents.

Three ten. Three thirty. Four.

She wouldn’t stop crying.

I paced the living room with her, back and forth, loop after loop.

Behind the master bedroom door, Gavin slept through all of it.

I pressed my lips to her forehead. “I’m sorry, baby.”

“Just a few more days. I’m getting us out of here. I promise.”