Late-stage pancreatic cancer. Three months.
I leaned against the wall, my fingers shaking as I tapped the contact pinned at the top of my phone: Husband.
The phone rang for a long time before anyone picked up.
First came the clatter of mahjong tiles, then Mrs. Gilbert Sr.'s piercing screech: "Don't answer it! She's calling to beg for money again!"
Thaddeus Gilbert's voice came through next, laced with irritation. "Pearl Cobb, I'm in the middle of a game. Whatever it is, make it quick."
My throat tightened. "I'm at the hospital. The doctor said I—"
"Then die already!" He cut me off. "Stop being a burden on this family. We don't have money to treat you."
The line went dead.
A message appeared on my phone almost instantly.
A sixty-second voice note. His tone was flat, bored, like he was discussing what to have for dinner: "You're dying anyway, so stop taking up space. When you sign the divorce papers, the house and the savings go to me. You leave with nothing. It's not that I'm heartless. You're just unlucky."
In the background, a woman's voice purred, playful and sweet: "Thaddeus, it's your turn to draw."
I made my decision.
The tears didn't fall.