My Husband Buried Our Kids. So I Buried His Legacy. Fair Trade. Chapter 14
I stood over him. Looked down at him kneeling there, tears still wet on his face.
“You say you owe me. You owe the kids.”
“So tell me. Those three weeks they had that fever. I ran between the hospital and home every day. One night I collapsed on the kitchen floor from exhaustion. Where were you?”
“You were in that same kitchen. Learning to make eggs. For HER.”
“She said jump, you jumped. She told you my mood would mess up the surgery—you barred me from the OR. She told you not to let me see the footage or I’d lose it—you locked it down.”
“You could’ve just thought for one second. You could’ve watched that tape for Ethan and Evan. You would’ve seen it. Did you watch it?”
“No. You didn’t.”
“You’re not stupid. You were scared. Scared that if you saw it, you couldn’t keep lying to yourself.”
“Even now—you won’t admit it. You had feelings for her. That’s why you protected her. And that’s why my sons are dead.”
He stayed on his knees. Tears dropping one after another. Snot and tears mixing. He looked hollowed out.
“I’m sorry… I’m so sorry… Elara… I failed them… I failed you… I was so wrong…”
I didn’t look back. Turned and walked out.
He scrambled up and lunged at me. Grabbed my leg. Pressed his face against my shoe.
“Please. Just let me see them before I go. One look. That’s all.”
I looked down at him. My voice came out cold—so cold it surprised even me.
“Not a chance.”
“You don’t deserve it.”
I pulled my leg free. Walked into my office. Signed a single sheet of paper.
Termination notice. Effective immediately. No severance.
Lucian was no longer part of my hospital.
I’d thought about sending him to Africa. Let him suffer. But I changed my mind.
Keeping him tied to anything I built? That would be an insult to this place.
Later I heard he tried to kill himself. Swallowed a bottle of pills. Then called 911 himself. They saved him.
After that, he drifted. Went to the eastern Congo alone. Found a rural clinic.
A little over a year later, word came back. He’d caught malaria—the drug-resistant kind. The clinic didn’t have the right meds. He died.
Before he went, he left a letter with the embassy. Asked to have his ashes brought back. Scattered near the kids.
I read it once. Sent two words back.
[Not happening.]
Then I called the person handling it.
“Dump his ashes.”
There was a pause. “Elara—I understand how you feel—but this is a human life—”
“He killed my children.”
Another pause. Then: “Understood. We’ll handle it.”
I hung up. Never asked about it again.
…
Sunlight poured down. The cemetery was quiet.
The little shield on the kids’ headstone was shiny when they first carved it. Now it looked weathered. Older.
I pressed my palm to the stone. Warm from the sun.
“Mommy settled the score for you.”
“No one’s going to bother you ever again.”
I stood there a long time. My phone buzzed.
New email. Subject line was short:
[Ethan & Evan Drake Hospital—Next Quarter Surgery Schedule Confirmation.]
I opened it. Scrolled to the bottom. Signed.
Locked the screen.
The sun was bright.
My loves. There’s a long road ahead.