I took a taxi to the hospital, arranged all the examinations, and set the date for the surgery on the spot.
I came home late at midnight, and there was only my son at home.
He stayed up, eating fried chicken and playing games.
I asked him, "Where did your dad go?"
He pointed upstairs and continued watching cartoons.
My husband was still at Jennifer's place.
I frowned and asked, "Has he been staying upstairs all the time?"
My son impatiently replied, "You're asking it only now? You left in a fit of anger for no reason, didn't cook for us, and came home late at night. If it were me, I wouldn't want to come home, either."
I had the examination report in my hand.
As long as my son turned his head and looked at me instead of the cartoon, he would know that I was sick.
I casually put the medical record on the bedside and went upstairs to find Eric.
Just as I approached Jennifer's door, I heard heavy breathing from inside the apartment.
I knocked on the door and the inside instantly became quiet.
The peeping hole was covered by shadows.
30 seconds later later, Eric opened the door.