Chapter 2 - The Digital Ghost Town
By noon, the hospital room had quieted down after a flurry of nursing checks, pediatric evaluations, and the quiet triumph of my first successful feeding. Emily was sleeping soundly, swaddled in a pink blanket Rachel had bought on a frantic midnight run to a 24-hour pharmacy in Zanesville.
I sat propped up against the pillows, finally reaching into my hospital tote and pulling out my phone. My thumb hovered over the power button.
“Are you sure you want to turn it on now?” Rachel asked, pausing with a paper cup of water halfway to her mouth. “We can wait until we’re settled at my place in Pittsburgh.”
“If I hide from him, he wins,” I said, my voice steady. I pressed and held the side button. The Apple logo flickered onto the screen, bright and stark against the white room.
For thirty seconds, nothing happened. Then, the alerts began to cascade down the screen with the relentless speed of a slot machine payout.
Missed Call: Derek (1)
Missed Call: Derek (2)
Text Message: Where the hell are you? Riverside called. They said you never checked in.
Missed Call: Derek (3)
Text Message: Answer your phone, Clara. This little stunt is getting ridiculous. My clients are already at the steakhouse.
Missed Call: Derek (4 through 42)
Then came the text messages that made my breath catch.
Text Message: I checked the garage. Your car is still here. How did you get to the hospital, walking? You better not have taken an Uber on my credit card.
Text Message: If you’re playing games at your mother’s, don't bother coming back. The house is in my name.
I scrolled through the wall of toxic fury without shedding a single tear. It was as if I were reading a file about two strangers—people in a life I had already outgrown.
“Any threats about the baby?” Rachel asked quietly, leaning over the bed.
“Not yet. He doesn't know she’s born yet,” I said, tapping the screen to open my banking app.
I logged into our joint checking account. My stomach plummeted.
The balance wasn't zero—it was negative twelve dollars, courtesy of an overdraft fee from a streaming subscription Derek had forgotten to cancel. Every penny of my freelance graphic design earnings, which I had deposited into the account over the last six months, had been siphoned off into a separate, private investment portfolio under Derek’s sole name three weeks ago.
He hadn't just left me with fifteen dollars for a cab; he had systematically locked me out of our financial life while I was nine months pregnant.
Before I could process the bitter realization, my phone began to vibrate violently in my palm.
Incoming Call: Derek.
I looked at Rachel. She gave me a hard, encouraging nod, reached out, and pressed the green accept button, sliding the phone directly onto speaker mode before placing it on my blanket.
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“Clara!” Derek’s voice roared through the speaker, harsh and furious, echoing off the sterile walls of the hospital room. “What in God’s name is wrong with you? Do you have any idea how embarrassing it was to show up to the steakhouse alone because my wife decided to throw a temper tantrum and turn her phone off?”
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