Jasmine Blooms After the Ruins

Three years after our divorce, I ran into my ex-husband at the hospital.

He was carrying supplements, accompanying his mistress to a prenatal appointment.

I was there for a follow-up on the legs they had broken at the Wifely Virtue Academy.

At the sight of my wheelchair, his knuckles turned white.

“Why didn’t you call me to pick you up when you got hurt?”

I answered calmly,

“You blocked me.”

After a long silence, he draped his jacket over me.

“Sorry. I forgot. Come home with me. I promised your dad I’d take good care of you.”

I backed my wheelchair away, making my refusal clear.