[I’ll have the divorce papers couriered to you immediately. If you insist on making a scene, then let’s just get divorced.]
I finally replied with one word: [Okay.]
On her end, the “typing…” indicator kept flashing. But in the end, she sent nothing.
I sent her a screenshot of Henry’s nine-photo Disneyland post, along with the report of the medical accident.
[Irene, it was him who killed our children, wasn’t it?]
All I got in return was a red exclamation mark. She had blocked me.
When I checked back on the social media posts, all of Henry’s flashy updates were gone. Only a lonely apology remained:
“The patient's family treated us to a meal to thank us for saving their child. Everyone got drunk and played games. I lost at truth or dare and the family member told me to pick a girl present and post about it. Miss Wells only helped me so I wouldn’t feel embarrassed. I apologize for any misunderstanding or negative impact.”
The picture? A crying cartoon cat bowing.
Underneath, Irene had commented.
“Don’t be scared, Henry. I’ve got your back. Some people better not think they can bully you.”
And then came the string of replies: