Ever since Emerald returned to the country with her leukemia-stricken son, Clinton had barely spent any time with our daughter. Tamara had worked so hard, even taking dance classes, just to impress him. But every time Emerald called to say her son missed him, Clinton would run straight to her side, leaving Tamara behind.
"If you don't like Tamara or me," I said, struggling to get back on my feet, "then divorce me! Go be that kid's father for all I care."
"Enough!" Clinton's voice was filled with rage. Desperate, I bit down hard on his wrist, and he finally let me go, cursing as he tossed his car keys at me.
"Crazy woman! Do you think divorcing me will get you half my assets? The house and savings are already in Emerald's name—you'll get nothing. And don't think you're taking the kid either!"
Ignoring his venomous words, I grabbed the keys and raced to the hospital. I didn't care about the house, the money, or anything else. All I cared about was saving Tamara.
At the hospital, I quickly recalled the events of my past life and found the operating room where Emerald was performing the surgery.