My Goodness Isn’t For Them, It’s For M

Calmly, I wiped the blood off the floor. Then I slipped the engagement ring off my finger. I tossed it into the trash along with the bloodstained tissues. "You'll need stitches." The bleeding still wouldn't stop, so I went to the ER. When the nurse unwrapped the silk scarf I'd tied around my hand, she frowned. "Is any family here with you?" "No." Her eyes flicked to the pale ring mark on my left ring finger. She didn't ask anything else. The ER doctor rolled the tray closer. "This is going to hurt a little. Don't try to tough it out." The needle pierced my skin. My fingertips trembled violently. The doctor paused. "If it hurts, say so. That's completely normal." I froze for a second. I didn't cry. I just clenched my injured right hand tighter. Five stitches later, the doctor handed me a prescription. "Keep it dry for at least a week." "But I'm a food creator. I have filming scheduled soon. Is there any other..." Before I could finish, he adjusted his glasses. "If you want to keep using that hand, put work on hold." The room fell silent. Finally, I nodded. "Thank you, Doctor." The moment I walked out of the emergency department, my phone buzzed. A message from Jacob. Jacob: Did you make it home? Thirty seconds later, another one came in. Jacob: I was a little harsh earlier. I ordered you some painkillers and Band-Aids. You know I hate it when people use their health as an excuse. Don't pull something like this again. I stared at the screen. I didn't reply. When I got home, I immediately noticed someone had been in the kitchen. The cream soup I'd spent four hours simmering before I got hurt was gone. It was supposed to be tomorrow's feature recipe. I'd even finished planning every camera shot. My phone vibrated again. Jacob had sent another message. Jacob: Betty has a sensitive stomach and can't handle takeout. I took the soup over so she'd have something warm to eat. You're going to be my wife, so try to be a little more generous. It's only one pot of soup. You can make another batch tomorrow. Be good. I stared at the words on the screen. My injured hand throbbed harder and harder. Eight years ago, when Jacob had been so sick with stomach pain that his face turned white, I'd stayed up all night making soup for him. He'd held my hand, his thumb gently brushing over the fingers I'd burned while cooking. He'd smiled and said, "Cheryl, from now on, you're only allowed to cook for me." Back then, the look in his eyes had been so earnest. Like he truly believed we had a future together. Now, the soup I'd poured my heart into was sitting in front of Betty instead. I replied with a single word. Cheryl: Okay. The message had barely gone through when Betty updated her social media again. The photo showed the white porcelain soup pot sitting on the little table beside her hospital bed. The caption read: Mr. West says outside food isn't clean, so he went all the way home to bring me something homemade. Being cared for like this really does make a girl greedy. Someone commented: [Mr. West seriously spoils you.] Betty: [Stop teasing. Cheryl worked so hard making that soup. I'm just helping Mr. West taste-test it for her.] I looked at the post for a long time. Then I locked my phone and set it face down on the table. On the nightstand in the bedroom, the engagement ring I'd thrown away had been washed clean. It rested beside a sticky note. Jacob's handwriting was as sharp as ever: When you're done throwing a tantrum, put it back on. Your hand's injured, so just stay away from cold water for the next few days. I stood beside the bed. For a very, very long time, I didn't move.