Regretting the Wife He Threw Away

Cedric Clarke and Lorna stood at the foot of the bed, taking turns to gently coax him, patiently repeating words of comfort.

The man who had always been proud and domineering now lay there in silence, meeting the end with a strange, calm acceptance.

The early August sun was setting, its warm glow slanting through the window, washing everything in red. Yet, no matter how the light touched his face, it couldn't bring color to his deathly pale cheeks.

A car rumbled into the driveway.

Carl was back.

Moments later, hurried footsteps pounded down the hall.

The bedroom door burst open.

Carl, breathless and flushed, rushed in clutching the photo album Briony had given him.

"Mr. Wentworth! Mr. Wentworth!"

He was rarely so reckless.

Stewart, who'd been slipping toward unconsciousness, was startled awake. His heavy eyelids lifted, and he gazed at Carl standing by the bed.

A faint crease appeared between Stewart's brows, a subtle wince betraying the worsening pain.

Carl's eyes were rimmed red as he thrust the album forward. "Mr. Wentworth, please look at this!"

Cedric and Lorna exchanged a glance.

They both guessed what Carl had brought must be from Briony.

But Stewart barely reacted.

Carl pressed on. "Miss Briony asked me to bring this to you."

That finally made Stewart pause.

It took him a moment before he rasped, "Who... did you say?"

"Miss Briony!" Carl's voice trembled with urgency. "She wanted you to have this album. It's a collection of her photos from birth to her first birthday Ms. Kensington found it for her."

With great effort, Stewart lifted a hand, reaching for the album, though his strength was all but gone.

Carl quickly set the album down and helped prop Stewart up, arranging two pillows behind his back.

Leaning against them, IV lines trailing from his thin wrist, Stewart slowly opened the album.

The very first photo was of little Nina, newly born, the date scribbled in the corner.

A premature baby, so tiny and red and wrinkled, lying in an incubator with a breathing mask over her face—just the sight of her made Stewart's heart ache.

He turned the pages-

Nina at one month;

Nina at two months;

Nina's first celebration;

Month by month, from birth to her first birthday, every change in his daughter was there, captured in those photos.

Stewart stared at them, and a flush of red crept into the corners of his eyes.

His trembling fingers brushed gently over his daughter's plump,

cheeks in the pictures, and in his min

promised her that night.

choed the words t

[I'm a good girl, Daddy! I know you're busy, I can wait, but you can't forget, okay? I only be in kindergarten for threeyears-you can't make me wait longer than that!]

Yes-he'd promised to take her to school himself.

His daughter had said she would only wait three years.

Because after three years, she'd be done with kindergarten.

A child's early years are so heartbreakingly brief-miss them, and you never get a second chance.

He'd made that promise, and now here he was, about to break it, about to run away like a coward...

Stewart's breath hitched; pain stabbed through his chest, sharp and relentless, as if someone were slicing into his heart with a knife.

A small USB drive was tied to the album.

He knew there must be videos inside-snippets of his daughter growing up.

He closed his eyes, each breath raw and shuddering, his body wrapped in unspeakable grief.

Cedric, Lorna, and Carl kept silent vigil around him.

Stewart pressed the album to his chest, clutching it tightly, tears falling silently at

first, then rising to quiet, suffocated sobs.noveldrama

Once, he'd been a pillar of strength; now, ravaged by illness, even his silk pajamas hung loosely on his wasted frame.

Even when post-traumatic nightmares had shattered his mind, he'd never cried.

But now, holding his daughter's album, he wept like a lost child.

He should have cried like this long ago.

When he was seven, hidden in the

hallway, overhearing his mother uncle plot to turn him into a

avel ne

vegetable, he should have cried

then. But he hadn't.

Fear and the instinct to survive had smothered his helplessness, forced him to swallow his tears.

That day's tears were locked away in the shell that became "Stewart."

On that day, little Stewart died in the failed “accident” his mother had planned.

Twenty-five years later, through his daughter's love, that lost little boy was finally alive again.

The sun set.

Stewart's sobs slowly faded.

Moonlight spilled in through the window.

In the dim room, Stewart's hoarse voice broke the silence: "Call Dr. Riley for me.

I'm willing to try again."