My Husband Signed Our Sons Death Chapter 1

My hand hovered over the dotted line of the surgical consent form, trembling so violently the tip of the pen blurred. Before the ink could even graze the paper, my husband’s hand clamped down on my wrist.

Three years. We had waited three agonizing years for a matching donor heart, watching the life drain out of our little boy. This was it. His only shot at survival.

And yet, Rob looked at me with deadened eyes and casually mentioned that the four hundred and fifty thousand dollars we’d scraped together—our son’s lifeline—had been wired to an underprivileged student's overseas tuition fund. Then, he slid a different piece of paper across the metal counter. A Do Not Resuscitate order. He had already signed it.

"Chelsea said she needs this opportunity," he said, his voice flat. "If she doesn't go to Paris now, her whole life is ruined."

"Our son is lying in the ICU, Rob. He is dying."

"He's asleep. He can wait a few more years. It's fine."

The words didn't just pierce my heart; they gutted me. Staring into the face of a man who suddenly looked like a total stranger, I didn't hesitate. With my free hand, I pulled out my phone and dialed 911.

* * *

I hung up the phone, my fingers still spasming.

"Who did you just call?" Rob materialized from behind me, snatching the phone from my grip. His eyes dropped to the screen, and his pupils dilated in sudden, sharp panic.

"Are you insane? Why the hell would you call the cops?" He looked at me as if I were the one holding a weapon.

"I am getting that money back. I am saving my son," I choked out, my voice vibrating with a primal kind of terror.

Rob grabbed my upper arm and shoved me backward. My shoulder blades slammed against the sterile hospital wall, a sharp flare of pain radiating down my spine.

"Sammy isn't dead yet! What is your rush?!"

The breath was knocked entirely out of my lungs.

What did he mean, Sammy wasn't dead yet?

Without that heart, Sammy wouldn't survive the month. He was only six years old. He hadn't even had the chance to figure out what the world looked like outside of these bleached walls. He had spent half his life in this ICU, his baby fat melting away until he was nothing but fragile bones beneath translucent skin.

"Chelsea is a hundred times the woman you are!" Rob shouted, jabbing a finger an inch from my nose. "That heart wasn't meant for Sammy. Chelsea said that passing the transplant onto the next kid on the list builds grace. It’s good karma for our son!"

"All you know how to do is cause a scene!"

The blood roared in my ears, a violent, rushing tide. I couldn't comprehend what I was hearing. The student had suggested this? A stranger had convinced him to give away my son's heart?

I stared at the man I had shared a bed with for a decade. He held my gaze, his jaw set, completely devoid of an ounce of shame.

"Chelsea said we can't be selfish!"

Something inside me snapped. I lunged forward, shoving him hard in the chest.

"Sammy is your flesh and blood! You gave away his only chance at life, and you gave away the money that was going to save him. Are you even human?!"

Tears were streaming down my face, hot and furious, my voice tearing at the seams. But Rob just shoved me back again. I stumbled, my sneakers squeaking against the linoleum as I barely caught my balance.

"I am his father! I have the right to decide his medical care! So what if he stays hooked up to the machines for another year? It won't kill him!"

"Chelsea is going to do great things for this country. That money was meant for her!"

I leaned against the wall, the edges of my vision blackening. "The doctor said his heart is giving out, Rob! He won't make it to October!"

Rob just rolled his eyes, a dismissive sneer twisting his mouth. "Doctors say whatever they need to say to scare you into paying them half a million dollars."

I was shaking from the inside out. Before I could speak, Rob’s hand shot out, gripping the back of my neck and pinning me against the wall.

"You are going to call the police back right now," he hissed, his breath hot against my face. "You're going to tell them you made a mistake. That you were hysterical."

I shook my head wildly, thrashing against his grip.

He let out a low, cold laugh. "If you don't make that call, I'm transferring him. I'll pull him out of the ICU and stick him in some discount hospice center, and we'll see how long he lasts there."

My knees gave out. I practically collapsed, hanging from his grip. "Rob, you're a monster."

He leaned in closer. "Try me, Paige. I'll bypass the hospice and take him straight to our living room."

The refined, gentle man I had married was completely gone. In his place stood an executioner.

"I want a divorce," I gasped out. "And I am suing you and your precious Chelsea. I will tear that money out of your hands."

The veins in Rob’s neck bulged. He opened his mouth to scream at me, but the heavy double doors of the ICU swung open.

A doctor stepped out, his surgical mask pulled down, a rare smile crinkling the corners of his eyes. "Paige. Good news. The registry just pinged us—there’s a new donor heart in the system. The preliminary match is incredibly strong."

I froze, pinned to the wall, wet tracks drying on my cheeks.

"We need a seventy-five-thousand-dollar deposit to prep the OR and secure the transport," the doctor continued softly. "The remaining balance is due post-op."