Post-Divorce Unwanted Kid: Receipts for Every Spend Chapter 02

Post-Divorce Unwanted Kid: Receipts for Every Spend Chapter 02 I’ll Sign It

I woke up in a hospital hallway.

The smell of disinfectant burned my nose.

Some delivery guy had brought me in and even covered my registration fee.

A doctor walked over with my chart, his forehead creased with worry.

“Your appendix ruptured. You need surgery immediately. Where’s your family?”

I opened my mouth, but my throat was so dry I could barely speak. “I’ll sign for myself.”

Finished

The doctor looked at me, and something complicated crossed his face. “You’re only eighteen. Surgery requires a legal guardian’s signature, and then there’s the cost-

“I have money.”

I was lying.

I had only 30 bucks in my account.

I pulled out my phone and took a picture of the diagnosis sheet, then posted it in the group chat.

“The doctor says it ruptured. I need surgery. Five thousand dollars.”

The chat went dead silent.

After forever, Mom finally sent a voice message. “Five thousand dollars? An appendectomy costs five THOUSAND dollars? Gwen, are you working with the hospital to scam me? The clinic could do it for a few hundred!”

Dad jumped in right after. “I’m at Sapphire Bay right now, can’t make it back. Your mom should cover this since it’s her week to deal with you.”

Mom went ballistic.

“Why should I pay? You dropped 20 grand on your son’s birthday, and now you’re nickel-and-diming me over your daughter’s surgery?”

“That was MY money! Gwen’s our shared responsibility, so we split it fifty-fifty!”

“Fifty-fifty? Fine. Transfer me 25 hundred first, and I’ll send mine when I see yours.”

“YOU transfer first! How do I know you won’t just pocket my half?”

They spent an entire hour fighting about who should send money first.

I watched the messages pile up, each one cutting deeper. The physical pain had gone numb, but the cold had seeped straight into my bones.

The doctor stood beside me and sighed, “Sweetie, if we don’t operate soon, you’ll go into septic shock.”

I looked up at him, and the tears finally came.

“Doctor, could you… could you do the surgery first? I’ll sign an IOU. I can work and pay the hospital back.”

The doctor froze.

Right then, a hand reached over and took the form from him.

“I’ll sign.”

I turned my head, barely managing it.

Part

A guy in a black windbreaker stood there, young, with sharp features. I recognized him-Harrison Ford the genius from the computer science department who always kept to himself.

He swiped his card and signed the papers, smooth and quick.

“What’s your relationship to her?” the doctor asked.

The guy glanced at me, his tone flat. “I’m her creditor.”

Right before they wheeled me into surgery, my phone buzzed.

It was a message from Dad.

“We talked it over. We’ll each send a thousand, and you figure out the rest yourself. You’re old enough to know better than to get sick from not taking care of yourself. Time to be responsible.”

Two payment notifications popped up, both with the same note attached. “Make it last. If there’s any left over, make sure you give it back.”

I stared at those notifications and just started laughing.

I returned the money and just turned my phone off.

When the surgical lights came on, I told myself one thing.

“Gwen, you’re an orphan now.”

The surgery went fine.

When I woke up, Harrison was still there. He sat in the chair next to my hospital bed with a laptop balanced on his knees, his fingers flying across the keyboard. The screen was covered in lines and lines of code.

When he noticed I was awake, he closed the laptop and pulled out a sheet of paper from his bag.

“Surgery plus hospital stay comes to 68 hundred dollars. Interest follows standard bank loan rates. When are you paying me back?”

His voice was nice to listen to, but cold as ice.

I managed to get the words out. “I’ll pay you’back… but I don’t have anything right now.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Yeah, I figured.”

Finished

He set the paper on my bedside table. “I’m Harrison Ford. Your phone wouldn’t stop ringing, by the way. Annoying as hell.”

I grabbed my phone and turned it back on.

The group chat had 99 messages, not a single one asking if I was alive, just everyone demanding to know why I returned the money.

Mom said, “Gwen, you’ve got some nerve. We send you money, and you won’t take it? What, you planning to use this against us later? Gonna claim we abused you?”

My dad sent another message. “Apologize right now, or I’m done helping you! Don’t push your luck!”

Then I saw the private messages from my mom.