My Husband Buried Our Kids. So I Buried His Legacy. Fair Trade. Chapter 03
I scrolled through the comments.
Mira had replied to every single one that insulted me with a smiling cat emoji.
Under Lucian’s “Don’t be scared” comment, she dropped a kissy face.
Then the doorbell rang. Courier.
He handed me a manila envelope. Inside was the divorce paperwork—Lucian had already signed his part.
He also passed me a small box.
“What’s this?” I asked.
He shifted on his feet, looking uncomfortable.
“Uh… a lady asked me to give it to you. She said… that you’re going through menopause, cranky and all, and she doesn’t want to hold it against you.”
“It’s menopause supplements.”
“You don’t look a day over thirty, though.”
That bitch.
I let out a cold laugh. “Take it out and throw it away.” Then slammed the door shut.
I went back to my study, pulled out a pen, and signed the divorce papers. Neat and clean.
My phone buzzed—the HR director.
[Elara, are you sure about this? The others I get… but Dr. Drake and Dr. Voss? Africa?]
[I know you’re grieving. But you need to separate business from personal feelings. You’re not just ruining two promising careers—think about all the patients who need them.]
I typed back:
[You’re right. I almost forgot about you. You’re fired. Third-party HR takes over tomorrow.]
Then I called the management company directly.
“Take over everything. Move fast.”
“Anyone who spoke up for Lucian Drake or Mira Voss—send them all to the remote postings—field clinics in South Sudan and the DRC.”
“If they refuse, claw back every cent of their training funding. At triple the rate.”
I hung up. Put my hand on the kids’ urns. White ceramic. Cold to the touch.
Every single doctor who commented in that thread—I handpicked them.
I paid for their tuition, top medical schools, all of it. Funded their residencies, their research, every grant they ever applied for.
Now they’re all falling over themselves to kiss Lucian’s ass.
They forgot who gave them everything.
I stared at the list of names. Not one was getting skipped.
South Sudan’s sun is brutal. Mosquitoes everywhere. Power outages all the time. The ORs there don’t even have proper ventilators.
They need a reality check.
You can’t raise doctors in comfort. Comfort makes you forget yourself.
At the very least—they need to remember who made them who they are.
A few minutes later, I realized Lucian had blown up my phone.
Dozens of missed calls.
He must have been desperate, because he sent me another friend request on Instagram.
The verification message said just four words:
[ANSWER THE DAMN PHONE.]