They forgot— it was my hospital that made her who she was. Without her, I could still raise countless top-tier specialists.
Henry had replied to every supportive comment with a smiling cat emoji and to Irene, he sent a kissing sticker.
The doorbell rang. It was a courier.
The delivery guy handed me a signed divorce agreement and a bag.
I asked, “What’s this?”
He stammered, “A guy asked me to give this to you. He said you’re old, got erectile dysfunction and keep picking fights 'cause you're bitter. He said he’s generous enough to not take it personally. He’s helping you please your wife, so you don’t have to thank him.”
Inside the bag were lubricant and a box of Viagra.
I calmly told the courier to throw away the things Henry had sent to provoke me. Then I closed the door.
I took out the divorce agreement and carefully signed my name.
My phone buzzed a few times—it was a message from the hospital’s HR director.
[Mr. Carter, maybe you should reconsider? It’s one thing to deal with others, but how can you send Miss Wells and Henry to Africa?]