When My Daughter was Burned to Death, My Husband Lost Contact

While our daughter Mia was being scorched in the kitchen, my husband, Nick Anderson, was miles away helping his first love, Jen, with a stubborn pickle jar.

In the panic of trying to pay for Mia's emergency care, I discovered that Nick had transferred all my savings into his own accounts.

He used our wealth to bolster his façade of a wealthy playboy in front of Jen.

Frantically, I dialed Nick's number, pleading for some cash to save our daughter.

From the other end, Nick's response was ice-cold, "Wow, you've really turned vicious, making jokes about our daughter's life? Just disappear!"

Then, the grim news of Mia's death was eventually received by Nick.

As I organized her funeral, I texted him: [It's time we talk about divorce.]

——

Our eight-year-old Mia was buzzing with excitement to show off a new recipe she learned to her dad.

A kitchen mishap occurred while I stepped out briefly to grab some soy sauce.

Mia's hair was singed off, and her skin turned a ghostly white from the burns.

Meanwhile, Nick, who had been lounging on the sofa, had vanished.

Despite her severe pain, Mia tried to console me, "Mom, I'm alright, really... Don't cry."

"Mommy, does Daddy not love me anymore? I just wanted him to taste my cooking, and he tossed it out..."

"He said he had to help Aunt Jen open a jar, and then he left..."

Jen Westwood, Nick's ever-persistent old flame.

Without a moment to lose, I, along with our neighbors, rushed Mia to the hospital.

Witnessing my daughter, scarred and in pain, being hurried into surgery broke me.

A compassionate nurse steadied me as I nearly fell, reassuring me, "We're doing all we can. You'll need to handle the payment first."

It was a posh private clinic, and the fees were steep.

An alert on my phone showed insufficient funds. In desperation, I checked all my accounts.

All my substantial savings had been stealthily moved to Nick's accounts.

Shaking, I consolidated the last of my funds onto one card to settle the hefty hospital bill.

With a mix of anger and desperation, I hammered Nick's phone with calls.

After countless attempts, he answered lazily, "What's the commotion now?"

Struggling to speak through tears and shaking with rage, I managed, "The kitchen exploded! Where were you?"

He dismissed the severity, "I heard about the explosion, but Jen couldn't open that jar by herself."

Realizing he knew and chose not to come broke me further, "You knew and did nothing! Mia's in the ER now, severely injured! How can you be so heartless, Nick?"

"Cut the drama, Mia is no toddler. Couldn't she have moved out of the way?" he cut me off, his tone frigid.

Remembering Mia's yearning for her father's affection, I softened, "Please, come see Mia at the hospital. I'm begging you."

Over the phone, Jen's coaxing voice grew louder.

Impatient, Nick retorted, "Your tactics sicken me. Using our daughter's crisis to manipulate me? Why don't you just drop dead?"

And with that, he hung up.

I felt a cold dread settle in my heart.

The ER doors swung open.

Mia lay there, her face obscured by a white sheet.

I held her cold, still hand, pretending she could still hear me.

Mia adored all things pink.

I poured my heart into planning a pink-themed funeral.

While still reeling from the shock, I sent one last message to Nick, still entwined with Jen, "Let's end this. Divorce."