He Cheated with the Nursing Assistant

The day Simon Gabriel got into a car accident, I was washing dishes in a tiny restaurant. Greasy water spilled over the back of my hand, and my cell phone vibrated three times in my apron pocket before I could finally free my hand to answer. The voice on the phone was a traffic cop, saying Simon Gabriel crashed into a guardrail, broke his left leg, and was at the hospital waiting to pay a deposit. I gripped my cell phone so tightly my fingertips left marks on the plastic case. He blew all our family savings on a failed investment last month. I had no choice but to work away from home, pulling two jobs every day just to scrape together the money he needs to get back on his feet. But now, instead of that capital, we've only got this medical bill. I asked the restaurant boss for time off, clutching the only 3,000 dollars I had on me, and rushed to the hospital. I sent Simon Gabriel a message while on the road, asking how he was doing. He didn't reply, and only when I was waiting in line at the hospital payment counter did a message pop up on my phone. "Weren't you always taking precautions? How did you still get pregnant? I can't even afford the medical expenses, and now I have to cover the abortion costs too." I froze, nearly dropping my bank card on the floor. Simon and I have been living apart for almost six months. We hadn't even seen each other before all this happened. How could I possibly be pregnant? Before I could reply, another message popped up: "I'm done with this. You pay for it yourself. I'm not paying a single cent." I was so angry my hands were shaking. Just as I was about to type and confront him, he sent a picture—it was a pregnancy checkup report, but the name on it was totally unfamiliar to me. Right after, he pulled the picture back and sent a new message: "I sent it to the wrong person, it's the report from the bed next door. How's work been these past couple of days? Send me a few thousand, the doctor says I need some supplements to recover faster." I stood at the payment counter, clutching my cell phone, with people coming and going around me, but I felt cold all over. That name on the pregnancy report... I swear I've heard it somewhere before. After thinking for a while, I finally remembered—it's the nursing assistant I hired through the nursing assistant company, Lily Clark. Just over fifty, always slicking his hair back until it shines, and when he talks, there's this forced friendliness. Back then, I thought he was honest and reliable, so I gave him an extra two hundred as a deposit. I took a deep breath and typed back, "I got fired, so it's actually perfect timing for me to come back and take care of you." After several minutes, he finally replied hesitantly, "I can take care of myself, and besides, the nursing assistant you arranged is pretty good." "No need to bother coming back." I stared at the words "nursing assistant is pretty good" and felt like something was squeezing my heart. I quit my job that very day and bought a ticket on the earliest high-speed train back. In my suitcase, there were only a few changes of clothes and 5,000 in cash that I'd saved up over two months, wrapped tightly in an envelope. When I got downstairs, I happened to run into the delivery guy dropping off a package. He was holding a box marked "Private Delivery" and asked if I was from Simon Gabriel's house. I nodded and took the box, feeling how light it was. Just as I was about to open the door, Madam Warren from next door came back from taking out the trash. Seeing the box in my hands, she smiled and said, "Yolanda, you're finally back! I've seen this box three or four times just this month." I froze for a moment and asked, "Have you ever seen anyone come to pick up this package?" "Yeah, it's Ms. Clark, the one who takes care of Simon." The smile on my face stiffened as I peeled the tape off the express delivery box with my fingers. A strong smell of cheap lace hit me as I opened it. Inside was a set of underwear, the fabric so thin it was like paper, ready to tear with a single tug. Simon and I haven't slept together in six months. Now he's got a broken leg—how could he possibly need this? Madam Warren was still standing there, saying, "Last time when Ms. Clark came to pick up an express delivery, she told me it was all thanks to her—said if it weren't for her, Simon wouldn't have lived a good life at the hospital." I closed the box and smiled at Madam Warren. "I'm going home to pack some things. I'll talk to you later." The second I closed the door, I leaned against it, my stomach twisting. I tossed the box down in the entryway and pulled out my phone to message Lily Clark: "Lily, are you free to come over? There's something I need to confirm with you." She replied quickly, "Ms. Scott, I'm at the hospital taking care of Mr. Gabriel right now. Should I come over later?" "No, don't bother. I'll wait for you." I typed, "Simon needs someone to look after him too. Come over and grab some things to bring to him."