He Left My Mother to Die, So I Left Him

The first call came from the hospital.

Jaycee Shields stood in her mother's kitchen, the scent of lemon cleaner sharp in the air. She was wiping down the counters, a small, mindless task to keep her hands busy.

Her phone buzzed against the granite. An unknown number.

She answered. "Hello?"

A clipped, professional voice asked if she was Jaycee Shields.

"Yes."

"I'm calling from St. Mary's. It's about your mother, Eunice Miller."

The dishcloth fell from Jaycee's hand. It landed on the floor with a soft, wet sound. A chill snaked up her spine.

"What happened?"

"There was an incident. She was brought into the emergency room. She's stable, but the doctor would like to speak with you."

Jaycee was already moving, grabbing her keys, her purse. Her mind raced. A car accident? A fall?

She dialed Cohen's number. Her fiancé. He was her rock, the one who always knew what to do. He answered on the third ring, his voice distant, muffled by wind.

"Jaycee? What's up?"

"It's my mom. She's in the hospital. I'm on my way there now." Her words tumbled out, breathless. "I don't know what happened."

There was a pause. In the background, she heard a woman's laugh. A familiar, tinkling laugh that made her stomach clench. Hillary Peterson.

"Okay, okay, calm down," Cohen said. His tone was placating, the one he used when she was being "emotional." "What did they say?"

"Just that there was an incident. St. Mary's."

"St. Mary's? That's miles away. Why there?" He sounded annoyed, not concerned.

"I don't know, Cohen. I'm just going."

Another pause. She heard him speak to someone else. "Just a second." Then he was back. "Look, I'm sure it's nothing. Your mom is tough. Did she fall?"

"They didn't say."

"Right. Well, listen." He took a deep breath. "Hillary and I are just about to hit the slopes. We just got to Aspen."

Aspen. He'd told her it was a business trip. That Hillary was just tagging along because her family had a chalet there. It was practical, he'd said.

"You're already there?" Jaycee asked, her voice small.

"Yeah, we just checked in. The snow is perfect." He sounded excited. Happy.

A cold dread seeped into Jaycee's bones. She stood by her car, the keys digging into her palm. "Cohen. My mom is in the hospital."

"I know, babe. And I'm sorry. But what do you want me to do? Fly back right now? The meetings are tomorrow. It's a huge deal for Bolton Corp."

She didn't say anything.

He sighed, a gust of impatience. "Look, call me when you know something. I'm sure it's just a sprain or something. Send her my love. I've got to go. Hillary's waiting."

He hung up.

The silence on the line was absolute. It pressed in on her ears.

Hillary was waiting.

Jaycee drove. The hospital was a blur of white walls and antiseptic smells. A doctor with tired eyes finally found her in the waiting room.

"Your mother was bitten by a dog," he said, his voice gentle.

"What?"

"A pretty nasty bite on her leg. The dog's owner brought her in. A Ms. Peterson."

Hillary.

The world tilted.

"The dog's name is Caesar," the doctor continued. "We've cleaned the wound and started her on antibiotics. The main concern is infection. Does she have a history of a weak immune system?"

"She has diabetes," Jaycee whispered.

The doctor's expression tightened. "Okay. That's important to know. We'll need to monitor her closely. We also need to confirm the dog's vaccination status. Ms. Peterson wasn't sure."

Jaycee's hands started to shake. She remembered Caesar. Hillary's prized Doberman. A massive, snarling animal she insisted was just "playful."

She found her mother in a small room, looking pale and tired against the starched white pillows.

"Hi, honey," Eunice said, her voice weak.

"Mom. What happened?"

"It was silly. I was taking out the trash. That dog of Hillary's got out. He just jumped on me. It wasn't his fault."

Jaycee's phone vibrated. A text from Cohen.

Any news?

She typed back with trembling fingers.

Hillary's dog bit her. She's on an IV. They're worried about infection because of her diabetes.

The three dots appeared, then vanished. Appeared again. Finally, a message came through.

Jesus. Is Hillary okay? She must be a wreck. Caesar is her baby. Assure her we know it was an accident. It's just a scratch, right? Dogs are dogs.

Just a scratch.

Jaycee stared at the words until they blurred. Her mother, lying in a hospital bed, was an afterthought. The real victim was Hillary.

She didn't reply.

She sat by her mother's bed for two days. She called Cohen again the next morning. It went to voicemail. She left a message.

"Mom's not responding well to the antibiotics. They're talking about surgery to clean the wound."

He didn't call back.

That evening, Hillary's Instagram story updated. A picture of her and Cohen, cheeks flushed from the cold, smiling in front of a fireplace. They were holding mugs of hot chocolate. The caption read: Best way to end a perfect day on the slopes!

Jaycee looked at the photo, then at her mother, sleeping fitfully, her leg swollen and red.

A fire started in her chest. A quiet, cold fire.

The next day, her mother went into septic shock. The doctor's voice was grave. He spoke of organ failure. Of last resorts.

Jaycee sat alone in the waiting room, her phone silent in her hand. She stared at the blank screen, seeing only the image of Cohen and Hillary, smiling by the fire.

He had chosen.

In truth, he had made his choice long ago. She had just been too blind, too hopeful, to see it.

For five years, she had contorted herself into the perfect shape for his world. The quiet, understanding, low-maintenance girl from the working class who knew her place. The girl who was so grateful for the attention of a Bolton.

But the girl in the hospital bed was her mother. The only person in the world who had ever loved her without condition.

And Cohen was in Aspen. With Hillary.

Her mother died at 3:17 AM.

Jaycee held her hand until it was cold.

She walked out of the hospital into the pre-dawn gray. The world felt silent. Hollowed out.

She got in her car and drove home. Not to the sleek, modern condo she shared with Cohen, but to her mother's small house. The house where she grew up.

She walked inside and closed the door.

She took out her phone, opened her contacts, and found her father's number. A man she hadn't spoken to in years, who had left after his own business failed, a shadow of his former self. But he was the only other blood she had.

He answered, his voice thick with sleep.

"Dad," she said, her own voice a raw, broken thing. "Mom's gone."

A heavy, pained silence. Then, "Oh, Jaycee. My God. I'm so sorry."

"I'm coming to New York," she said. It wasn't a request. It was a statement. "I'm done here."

"Of course," he said, his voice cracking. "Whatever you need. I'm here."

She hung up.

The decision was made. Not out of anger, but out of a sudden, terrifying clarity.

She was leaving.

She would pack her mother's life into boxes, erase herself from Cohen's world, and disappear.

She would burn it all down.