The Wife He Forgot To Love Chapter 08
Third person’s POV
Around 5 p.m., Jonathan received a call from the property management. “Mr. Aguirre, there’s a serious water leak in your apartment. The ceiling below has been damaged. We couldn’t reach your wife, and she’s not answering the door. Could you please come back as soon as possible?”
He was revising a proposal when his hands froze on the keyboard.
“My wife is at home. She’s probably doing laundry and didn’t hear it.”
“We’ve made over a dozen calls. Please come back and take a look.”
He ended the call and sat in the chair for a moment. Then he grabbed the car keys, told his colleague that he had to go home, and headed out.
By the time he reached the apartment complex, the property manager was already waiting at the entrance.
They went up together. He entered the password, and the door opened.
Neither the foyer nor the living room lights were on.
There was water on the floor, flowing in from the corridor and squelching under every step.
He shouted, “Daniela!” but there was no response.
Through the crack under the bathroom door, the water kept leaking out.
He walked over, turned the doorknob, and realized it was locked from the inside.
Then he knocked a few times, but she didn’t answer.
The property manager suggested calling a locksmith, but he ignored it, took a step back, and kicked the door. On the second kick, the door opened.
Water flooded out from the room, rising over his shoes.
It was warm and smelled like rust.
The tub was filled with dark red water. She lay against the edge, head tilted to one side, her left hand dangling. A deep cut ran across her wrist, already dried.
Her skin was ashen and slightly blue, her lips tinged purple. Her eyes were shut tight, and her expression was peaceful.
She wore a gray loungewear with a loosened collar. Her hair floated in the water, black and red blending together.
He stood at the door, motionless.
Behind him, the property manager glanced inside, went pale at once, and turned away to call the police.
People were running and screaming in the hallway. The neighbor downstairs kept asking, “What’s going on?”
All the voices around him felt muffled, as if they were filtered through glass, distant and almost unreal.
He crouched down and took her hand. It was cold.
But he gripped it tightly, trying not to let it slip away.
He knelt on the wet floor and pressed her cold hand against his cheek.
His words failed him.
At six, Bradley’s call came through.
Jonathan was sitting on a plastic chair in the hospital corridor, his clothes still wet.
He picked up the call. In a spoiled and self-righteous tone, Bradley said, “Jonathan, can you come to the police station and bail me out? I’ve called Dani many times, but she’s not answering.”
Jonathan didn’t say a word.
“Jonathan, are you listening?”
“Bradley,” Jonathan croaked.
“Your sister is dead.”
The line went quiet for a long time.
It was so long that Jonathan almost believed Bradley had hung up.
“Come again?”
“Your sister is dead. She slit her wrist this morning.”
Bradley fell silent.
Through the speaker, Jonathan heard the phone drop to the floor, followed by labored breaths.
After Bradley said, “That’s impossible,” the call was cut off.
It wasn’t long before Jaelyn’s call came in.
Jonathan picked it up, and Jaelyn barked, “Jon, Brad said you told him that Dani was dead. He’s making it up, isn’t he?”
“Jaelyn.”
“Say something.”
“Daniela is gone. She passed away this morning.”
There was a sudden silence on the line. Then came a piercing howl, like a wounded animal.
That sound lasted for a while, punctuated by Jaelyn’s broken cries. “Dani… Dani, come back… I won’t ask you for money anymore… Pick up your phone, please…”
Jonathan’s hands started shaking.
He remembered something Daniela had said a long time ago.
She leaned against his shoulder and said, “When I was a kid, I fell into a river. My mom jumped in and saved me. At that moment, I thought she loved me.”
Because of that scrap of love, she stayed in the village for thirty years.
Jaelyn took the train and arrived the next day.
When she showed up, she carried a duffel bag stuffed with prunes.
Hesitating, she lingered outside the funeral home. When asked by the staff, she said, “I’m her mother.”
Then she crouched down, hugging the duffel bag, and broke into tears.
She didn’t wail. Her shoulders jerked with each sob, and her tears fell to the ground.