The Blind Box That Cost Me Everything Chapter 04

The Blind Box That Cost Me Everything Chapter 04

The resuscitation room doors were closed.

I called Gavin from the hallway.

No answer on the first call.

No answer on the fifth. Or the tenth.

My hands were shaking so hard I could barely hold the phone.

I didn’t know which call he finally picked up.

“What?”

“She’s burning up. They’re resuscitating her right now. The doctor says she needs a specialized pediatric surgeon. My insurance won’t cover it, and they need a deposit. Gavin, please, just come pay the bill.”

A pause. “How much?”

“At least eight thousand.”

He laughed through his nose. “Unbelievable. Two grand wasn’t enough last time, so now you’ve quadrupled the ask?”

I sank to the floor in the hallway, crying so hard I could barely get the words out.

“Gavin, I am begging you. She is dying. They won’t clear the surgical team until someone pays. Please.”

Nothing on the line.

“I’m on my way.”

I pressed my back against the wall and waited. One hour.

He never came.

I called again. His phone was off.

I found out later what happened. Bianca called him right before he walked out the door.

“Gavin, the baby won’t stop coughing. I’m freaking out.”

He hesitated. Then he went to her instead.

The baby had choked on some milk. By the time he got there, she was fine.

But Bianca grabbed his arm, said she was scared, asked him to stay just a little longer.

He made it to the door. Then he turned around.

Back at the hospital, the nurse came out a third time. “Her vitals are dropping. The surgeon is waiting on billing clearance. If you don’t pay right now, we are going to lose her.”

I knelt at the billing desk and emptied everything I had.

My phone. My wallet. The nine dollars and ninety cents in my account.

It wasn’t enough.

The resuscitation room door opened.

The doctor pulled off his mask. He looked at me the way people look at someone they’re about to break. “She was malnourished. Her immune system couldn’t fight it. The fever triggered complications…”

He shook his head. “If we’d gotten her into surgery sooner, there might have been a chance.”

“We did everything we could.”

The nurse brought her out and placed her in my arms.

She was so small. So light.

Her fist was still clenched, the way it used to close around my finger at night.

It would never open again.

The tears came. Slow, silent, and endless.

The nurse rubbed my back, then pressed a form into my hands and asked me to sign.

I didn’t know how I held the pen. I didn’t know what I signed.

Eight thousand dollars. That was what one outfit cost for Bianca’s baby.

It cost my daughter her life.

This time, I didn’t call anyone.

Gavin texted later.

[Baby’s fine now, right? Stop blowing up my phone over every little thing. I’m busy.]

I didn’t reply.

Another one came through a few minutes later.

[Silent treatment now? Last time 2k wasn’t enough. Now you’re using her being sick to squeeze me again. Maren, seriously, get some new material.]

I read it twice. Then I started laughing. The kind of laugh that comes out wet and broken.

He still thought I was running a con.

I closed the chat and made a call.

“Ms. Shaw. I want a divorce.”

The typing on the other end went quiet.

“Ms. Halstead… I’m not finding a marriage record between you and Mr. Ellison in the system.”

“What?”

“Mr. Ellison’s registered spouse is… Bianca.”

I held the phone against my ear for a long time without speaking. Then I said I understood.

Then I remembered Talia’s message. The one I never finished reading.

I opened it. Screenshots.

A group chat called “Family.”

Dad. Mom. Bianca. Gavin. Talia.

Everyone was in it. Everyone except me.

The latest message was from Bianca. A photo.

A birth certificate.

Father: Gavin Ellison.

Mom: [She’s adorable. Looks just like her daddy.]

Dad: [So proud of you, sweetheart.]

Talia: [Congratulations!!]

Gavin sent a transfer. Nine hundred and ninety thousand dollars.

The next screenshot was a private chat. Bianca and Talia.

[She came crying to you again today, right?]

[Yeah. Played the supportive best friend, just like you said. She doesn’t have a clue.]

[You’re the best. I owe you dinner.]

[Don’t worry about it. Maren’s so stubborn. It’d be a nightmare if she ever figured it out.]

A nightmare. That was what I was.

Every outraged phone call. Every furious rant on my behalf. All of it rehearsed.

“I’m so mad for you.” “You’ll always come first with me.” None of it was real.

Every single word.

I turned off my phone. I wouldn’t cry. Not for any of them.

Dawn was breaking outside the hospital.

I looked down at the blanket in my arms.

It was empty.

I pulled the mystery box slips from my wallet. Three years’ worth, one by one.

Nine dollars and ninety cents.

Six dollars and sixty cents.

Five dollars and thirty cents.

One dollar and eighty cents.

I dropped them all into a trash can on the curb.

Then I walked to the subway station and got on the airport train.

Gavin’s last message still glowed on my screen. I didn’t open it.

He was probably still waiting for me to come crawling back.

He didn’t know there was nothing left to crawl back to.

It was the seventh day.

…

Three days passed.

Gavin called the hospital. “Tell your patient, the gold digger, that I’m done with the mystery boxes. She’ll get a real allowance next month. So she can drop the silent treatment.”

The nurse’s voice was careful. “Ms. Halstead was discharged three days ago, sir.”

“And the baby?”

A long silence.

“Mr. Ellison, the baby… the doctors couldn’t save her. Three days ago.”

She paused.

“She’s gone.”