Five Days After My C-Section, My Husband Gave Me $20 and Told Me to Take the Bus Home With Our Newborn.

I had just been discharged from the hospital after giving birth when my husband made me take the bus home while he secretly drove our Maybach to take his entire family out for hot pot. Two hours later, he went bankrupt, and the revelation of my identity terrified his entire family.

The smell of antiseptic clung to my clothes as I sat on the edge of the hospital bed, my hands pressed gently against my lower abdomen where the C-section incision throbbed with each breath. Five days had passed since they’d cut me open to bring my son into this world, and the wound still wept and burned with every movement.

Around me, the maternity ward hummed with life and warmth. Other new mothers were being tenderly supported by their husbands, fed spoonfuls of nourishing soup by doting mothers-in-law, the rooms filled with cheerful chatter about nurseries and first words and tiny fingers. But I sat alone with a shabby duffel bag at my feet and my son sleeping soundly in his plastic bassinet, wrapped in the standard-issue hospital blanket.

Ethan, my husband, the man I’d abandoned my privileged life for, stood across the room leaning against the window frame. He didn’t look at me once. His fingers flew frantically across his phone screen as he muttered numbers from some project he was always boasting about—a multi-million dollar deal that would finally put us on top.

“Are you done yet? You’re so slow,” Ethan snapped, his eyes still glued to the screen. “The doctor signed your discharge papers half an hour ago. Who are you trying to guilt trip by just sitting there?”

I bit my lip, trying to suppress the searing pain radiating from my incision, and struggled to my feet. The heavy duffel bag on my shoulder made me sway dangerously. I looked at him, my eyes pleading for the smallest gesture of care.

“Ethan, my incision still hurts so much. Could you please carry the bag for me? I have to hold the baby.”

He finally looked up, his brow furrowed in annoyance, as if I’d asked him to donate a kidney. He clicked his tongue, snatched the bag from my shoulder with a jerk, and slung it over his own.

“You women are so soft,” he muttered. “My grandmother used to say they’d have a baby and be cooking dinner an hour later. Now you complain about a little pain. Hurry up. My mom is calling.”

The mention of my mother-in-law made my stomach clench. Brenda—the woman who told the neighbors she loved me like her own daughter, but behind closed doors scrutinized every grain of rice I dropped, every strand of hair I shed, every penny I spent.

Ethan’s phone rang again. He put it on speaker, and Brenda’s shrill voice echoed through the quiet hospital room.

“Ethan, honey, come on down. Sarah and I are waiting at the main entrance. Let’s get to that hot pot place—I booked a table at Golden Palace to celebrate my grandson’s arrival. We have to celebrate in style and make everyone jealous.”

I felt a lump form in my throat. Celebrating their grandson, but not a single word of concern for the daughter-in-law who had just endured a life-threatening surgery to bring him into the world.

I spoke up timidly. “Honey, I just gave birth. The doctor said I need to avoid crowds and rich food. A hot pot dinner isn’t a good idea for me right now.”

Ethan whipped his head around, his eyes as sharp as daggers. “Who said you were going? You’re going home to watch the house. Mom says you have bad energy right after giving birth, that you’ll jinx my business deals if you come along. I’ll drop you off at the corner. You can walk from there.”

His words were like ice water dumped over my head. I looked at the man I had shared a bed with for two years, and suddenly he seemed like a terrifying stranger. So in their eyes, I was just an incubator. Once my job was done, I was disposable—a jinx, bad luck, something to be hidden away.

I bent down to pick up my son, hiding the tears that threatened to spill. The baby stirred, making little sucking noises. Oh, my sweet boy, I thought. That’s your father, and that’s your grandmother. They welcome you with a lavish party but cast your mother aside like trash.

I took a deep breath, swallowing my bitterness. Fine. If they were going to be this heartless, I no longer needed to play the role of the gentle, submissive wife.

Ethan was already striding out of the room, not even glancing back to see if his wife and newborn son were managing. I followed, each heavy step sending a jolt of pain through my body. But the physical agony was nothing compared to the knife twisting in my heart.

A cold draft hit me as we exited the building. The first thing I saw was the gleaming black Maybach parked brazenly in the VIP pickup lane. That was my car—to be precise, it was a wedding gift my father had secretly given me. But Ethan had “borrowed” it to impress his business partners and had gradually claimed it as his own, a trophy to flaunt to the world.

He strutted toward it with a cocky air, pulled out a handkerchief, and wiped an imaginary speck of dust from the hood, treating the car with more care than he’d ever shown his wife and child.

I thought he would open the door for us to get out of the wind. But no. He stood blocking the door, reached into his pocket, and pulled out a crumpled twenty-dollar bill. He thrust it into my hand, looking at me as if I were a beggar.

“Here,” his voice was cold, devoid of emotion. “The bus stop is right across the street. The fare is only two-seventy-five, so you’ll have enough leftover for a bottle of water. Take the M15. It goes right by our neighborhood.”

I stared at the green bill in my hand, then at the half-million dollar luxury car beside him. The comparison was excruciating. His wife, five days after a C-section, her wound still fresh, was being sent to a crowded public bus while he drove off alone in a super-luxury sedan.

“What did you say?” My voice trembled—not from the cold, but from pure rage. “You want me to take our five-day-old son on a bus? Are you even human? This car is huge. Why can’t we ride in it?”

Ethan scoffed, a look of disgust on his face. “What do you know? I have to pick up Mom and Sarah, and then I’m meeting my partners for the contract signing. Look at you—you smell of sour milk. Your hair is a mess. Your clothes are frumpy. If you sit on my imported Italian leather, the smell will never come out. And what if the baby spits up? Do you know how much it costs to get the interior detailed?”

I let out a sharp, bitter laugh. “Ethan, have you forgotten whose name is on the title of this car?”

His face darkened. He hated being reminded of my family’s money. He jabbed a finger at my forehead, hissing through clenched teeth. “Don’t you dare pull that crap with me. You married into the Thompson family, so what’s yours is ours. I’m the one earning the money to support this family now, and I make the decisions. If you know what’s good for you, take the money and go. Don’t make me angry, or you won’t even get the twenty.”

With that, he turned his back, opened the driver’s side door, and carefully brushed off the seat before sitting down as if afraid of contamination from the hospital air.

I stood there frozen, staring at the man I had once loved, for whom I had sacrificed my youth and abandoned a life of luxury. Was this what our love was worth? A crumpled twenty-dollar bill?

A car horn blared behind me. Passersby started to point and stare at the woman holding a baby, crying in the cold next to the smug man in the luxury car. But Ethan didn’t care.

I clenched the bill in my hand so tightly my nails dug into my palm. The sting was a welcome distraction.

Fine. You’re afraid I’ll dirty your car, right? You’re afraid the smell of my baby will embarrass you? I will remember this day. This Maybach and that pathetic excuse for an ego you’ve built—I will take it all back. Every last cent.

“I’m going,” I said, my voice raw and hoarse. I turned and walked away without looking back.

But I knew the best part of the show was yet to begin.

In the distance, a taxi pulled up, and two familiar figures stepped out. Brenda was wearing a tight red velvet dress, a string of fake pearls as large as marbles around her neck, and clunky platform heels tottering toward the Maybach. Following her was Sarah, Ethan’s sister, in a sequin dress that sparkled absurdly in the daylight, her face caked in enough makeup for a stage performance.

They rushed to Ethan’s side, one stroking the hood, the other caressing the side mirror, cooing as if they’d struck gold. Brenda’s eyes crinkled into a smile as she slapped Ethan’s shoulder. “That’s my son, a real CEO. This is the kind of car you deserve.”

Ethan leaned against the car, grinning smugly. I stood a short distance away, huddled with my son under a large oak tree to shield him from the wind, watching their family reunion with a heart as cold as ice. They walked right past me as if I were invisible—a piece of trash on the sidewalk not worth a second glance.

Sarah was the first to spot me. She shot me a sideways glance and curled her lip. “Oh, look—still haven’t caught a bus, sister-in-law? Looking that shabby, even a taxi wouldn’t stop for you. Probably think you’re bad luck. Better start walking. A little exercise will help your uterus shrink.” She covered her mouth and let out a shrill, cruel laugh.

Brenda finally turned to me, her gaze holding no trace of sympathy. “Hey, when you get home, use the back door. You hear me? Don’t bring your bad luck in through the front. And make sure you clean the kitchen as soon as you get there. The place has been a mess since you’ve been in the hospital. Sarah and I have had to eat out every night. Do you know how much of Ethan’s money that costs? Useless woman.”

I looked at her, at the way she lovingly touched her son’s arm, and then down at her own newborn grandson, whom she hadn’t even glanced at. The blood in my veins boiled, but my mind told me to be patient. Now was not the time.

“Mom, the baby is so little. The bus is crowded. He could get sick,” I tried, making one last appeal to their conscience.

But Ethan cut me off. He opened the rear door and respectfully ushered Brenda in as if she were a queen. “Get in, Mom. Ignore her. She’s used to her silver spoon life. A few bus rides will teach her about the real world. Let’s go eat.”

The car door slammed shut. The quiet purr of the half-million-dollar engine started, and the car began to move. Then, as if to mock me, a tire rolled through a puddle, splashing dirty water all over my pants and canvas shoes.

Through the window, I caught a glimpse of Sarah’s triumphant smirk and Brenda’s satisfied nod. The black car’s silhouette faded into the bustling city traffic, leaving me alone with the wind, the dust, and a profound, soul-crushing humiliation.

Only then did the tears finally stream down my face, hot against my cold cheeks. I wasn’t crying for the car. I was crying for my son, and for my own blindness. For two years, I had left behind my privileged life to chase what I thought was the sincere love of a poor but ambitious man. But I saw no ambition now—only greed, pettiness, and cruelty.

I wiped my tears away with the back of my hand. My expression changed. The submissive weakness was gone. My patience had reached its absolute limit.

I pulled my phone from my bag, my hand trembling as I dialed a familiar number—a number I hadn’t dared to call in two years.

A deep, authoritative, worried voice answered. “Hello, who is this?”

I took a deep breath, my voice choked but firm. “Dad, I was wrong. Please come get your grandson. I can’t stay in this hell for another second.”

The M15 bus screeched to a halt, exhaling a cloud of black exhaust. The doors hissed open, and a crowd of people surged forward. I clutched my son tightly to my chest, using my own frail body as a shield, trying to navigate through the forest of shoulders and arms to find a place to stand.

The bus was packed. The sour stench of sweat, gasoline, and damp clothing mingled into a thick fog. The C-section wound throbbed with every jolt and shudder of the old vehicle. I gritted my teeth, cold sweat breaking out on my forehead, my legs trembling so badly I thought I would collapse.

“Move in! Make room!” the driver yelled.

I was shoved against the cold glass of the window. My baby, startled by the crush of bodies, began to wail. His tiny cries were lost in the cacophony of the city, but they pierced my heart like needles.

“Hey, someone give that young lady with the baby a seat!” An elderly woman with snow-white hair called out from nearby. “She’s going to fall over.”

She shakily stood up and waved me over. “Here, dear, you take my seat. You look pale as a ghost. Bless your heart.”

Tears welled in my eyes as I bowed my head and thanked her profusely. A complete stranger, no blood relation, was willing to give up her seat for me and my son. And my husband, my child’s father, had thrown us out onto the street in our most vulnerable moment. The irony was a bitter pill to swallow.

Once seated, I finally allowed myself to exhale. The bus lumbered on, each pothole sending a nauseating lurch through my body. I stared out the window at the endless stream of cars, the skyscrapers, the glamorous lights of this city. None of it had ever felt like it belonged to me since the day I married into Ethan’s family.

Suddenly, my phone buzzed. It was a notification for an Instagram Live from Sarah. The caption dripping with sarcasm: “Taking my amazing mom and my CEO brother out for a celebratory dinner for the new heir. #LivingTheHighLife #FamilyFirst.”

As if possessed, I tapped to watch. On the tiny screen, the opulent interior of the hot pot restaurant appeared in sharp detail. The table was laden with plates of premium beef, bright red lobsters, and towers of fresh greens. Steam rose from the bubbling broth, a picture of warmth and comfort—a stark contrast to the cold, rattling bus.

Brenda grabbed the microphone for the restaurant’s karaoke system, her face flushed with wine. “My son is paying for everything tonight! Eat up, everyone! Our family is in a different league now!”

Ethan sat beside her, swirling a glass of red wine, his face tilted toward the ceiling in a smug grin as he addressed Sarah’s phone. “Hey everyone, so happy tonight. My wife—oh, she’s tired, so she’s resting at home. Only the most important people are here tonight.”

His wife and newborn son were struggling on a public bus, but his ego was the most important guest at his table.

Just then, the bus stopped at a red light. I glanced numbly at the lane beside us, and my heart skipped a beat. Right next to my grimy bus was my Maybach. A valet from the restaurant was parking it.

It turned out I had traveled right past the very restaurant where they were celebrating. We were separated by a single pane of glass, yet we were in two different worlds. One was a glittering fake illusion. The other was the raw, painful truth.

I stared at my car, then down at my phone screen where Ethan was laughing at my expense. “Noah,” I whispered to my sleeping son, “look closely. This is the last time your father will ever smile so smugly. I promise you.”

The light turned green. The bus shuddered and pulled away, leaving the bright lights behind. Inside me, a plan for revenge began to take shape, colder and clearer than ever before.

The submissive wife was dead. All that remained was a mother rising to protect her child.

The drizzle turned into a steady downpour as the bus finally pulled into my stop. Cold drops hit my face and neck, but strangely, I didn’t feel the cold anymore. The fire of retribution in my heart was burning too brightly.

Through the rain, I saw a fleet of black Rolls-Royces waiting like silent panthers. My father’s longtime head of staff, David, a kind man with silver hair, stood holding a large black umbrella, his eyes anxiously scanning the crowd.

The lumbering bus pulled away, but I hadn’t gotten back on. I knew my home wasn’t the place where that treacherous man was.

The Rolls-Royce Phantom with a custom license plate pulled up directly in front of me, flanked by two Range Rover escorts. Pedestrians stopped and stared, likely thinking a head of state was passing through.

The door swung open. A man in his sixties with salt-and-pepper hair and a meticulously tailored suit rushed out. David hurried from the passenger seat, holding the umbrella to shield me and my son.

“Miss Olivia. Oh, my dear Miss Olivia.” David’s voice was thick with emotion.

But my eyes were fixed on the man standing before me. My father—William Sterling, chairman of Sterling Holdings, a man whose slightest cough could send tremors through the city’s business world.

He looked at me, then at his newborn grandson wrapped in a worn blanket, and then down at my mud-splattered canvas shoes. His eyes turned red, and a vein pulsed on his forehead. He didn’t say a word—he just lunged forward and pulled both of us into a tight embrace, his broad shoulders trembling.

“Dad, I’m so sorry.” I buried my face in his chest, which smelled faintly of cedar wood and success. Tears streamed down, washing away the grime of the city and the stain of my humiliation.

“Let’s go home, sweetheart. I’m here now.” His voice was deep, laced with a pain he was trying to suppress.

He took off his suit jacket and draped it over me, carefully shielding his grandson from the wind. I was helped into the car. The interior was warm, smelling of rich leather and a hint of orange essential oil. The family’s private doctor immediately began checking on Noah.

I leaned back into the plush seat, feeling as if I had just woken from a long, grueling nightmare. My father sat beside me, his hand gripping my cold one. He pulled out his phone and dialed a number.

“Hello, it’s Sterling. Within the next two hours, I want Ethan Thompson’s little startup, Apex Innovations, wiped off the city’s business map. Cut all his credit lines. Freeze his accounts. And get the IRS and the SEC to pay him a visit. The reason? The reason is he dared to make my daughter ride the bus.”

He hung up, tossing the phone aside. He stared out the window at the storm raging outside, his expression as sharp as a razor. “He wants status? I’ll show him what it means to be a nobody. He loves money? I’ll let him taste what it’s like to have nothing.”

The car glided away, carrying me far from the fake poverty I had so foolishly embraced. But a vague worry lingered—Ethan was a petty man. When cornered, would he try to bite back?

While I was being cocooned in my father’s care, back at the restaurant, the Thompson family celebration was reaching its peak. I knew every detail because the restaurant security system was owned by my father’s corporation, and I was watching a live feed on an iPad.

The VIP table was a mountain of food. Ethan sat in the middle, face flushed, swirling his wine glass, spouting nonsense about his make-believe deals. “Don’t you worry, Mom. I’m hitting it big this year. That Westgate development project is in the bag. I’ve sunk everything into it. One signature, and the money will pour in like a flood.”

Brenda was ecstatic, grinning so wide her eyes disappeared. “Oh, you sweet talker. But listen, son, you need to keep an eye on that wife of yours. She’s from the sticks. Now that we’re rich, she might try to sneak money back to her poor parents.”

“Don’t worry about it, Mom,” Ethan waved dismissively. “She’s an idiot. Does whatever I say. I control all the money. What can she do? All she’s good for is having babies and cooking.”

Sarah, still live streaming, chimed in. “Totally, Mom. My sister-in-law is as dumb as a rock. Ethan told her to get on the bus today and she just stood there with a blank face. Didn’t even argue.”

I watched the screen, my finger tracing a line on the cold glass. We’ll see who’s training whom.

Just then, Ethan’s phone rang. It was his strategic partner. He motioned for his family to be quiet and answered. “Hey, Greg, it’s Ethan. I’m at dinner. Have you arrived yet?”

But the smile on Ethan’s face vanished, snuffed out like a candle in a hurricane. His face went from red to pale to bloodless white. His hand trembled, and his chopsticks clattered to the table.

“What? What do you mean? We had a deal. Greg, wait. Listen to me. Hello? Hello?”

The line went dead. Ethan stared at his phone in a daze, beads of sweat popping on his forehead. The Westgate project, the single lifeline keeping his finances afloat, had just been canceled. The partner had been brief: “We received a directive from the top. We’re forbidden from doing business with your company.”

“What is it, son? What’s wrong?” Brenda asked, concerned.

Ethan flinched, quickly waving his hand and forcing a pained smile. “Nothing, Mom. Nothing. Just a small hiccup. Let’s keep eating.”

He grabbed his wine glass and drained it in one gulp, but his hand shook so badly that wine sloshed onto his expensive white shirt. He didn’t know that was just the opening shot in the financial massacre my father had orchestrated for him.

Ping. A text message alert. He glanced down. It was from his bank: “Your corporate account has been frozen at the request of federal authorities.”

Ethan’s eyes widened in horror. My father’s car had brought me to the gates of our family estate—the golden wrought-iron gate slowly swung open, revealing a magnificent mansion that for the past two years I’d only dared to look at on Google Maps to soothe my homesickness.

The moment my foot touched the plush red carpet in the foyer, the phone in my bag vibrated. It was Ethan. I looked at the screen, at the contact name—”my love”—that I had once so carefully saved. How ironic it seemed now.

I took a deep breath and answered. “Hello?” My voice was light, unnervingly calm.

“Where the hell are you?” Ethan’s roar came through. “Are you home yet? Is dinner ready? I’ve been calling the landline and no one’s picking up.”

He still had no idea he was standing on the edge of a cliff. “I’m not at the apartment, Ethan,” I replied, my eyes admiring the brilliant crystal chandelier. “I’m at my father’s house.”

“Your father’s house?” He scoffed. “That little shack in the countryside? Get an Uber and come back right now. I’m giving you thirty minutes.”

Beside me, my father had heard everything. He took the phone and put it on speaker, signaling to David to turn on the living room’s sound system. A graceful classical symphony filled the air.

“Do you hear that?” I asked Ethan.

“What’s that noise? Are you at a coffee shop?”

“No,” I said with a soft, chilling smile. “It’s the music at my father’s house. You just enjoy your meal. Eat as much as you can, because I’m afraid this will be the last good meal you’ll have for the rest of your life.”

“What are you talking about? Are you cursing me?”

“I’m not cursing you. I’m just warning you. Oh, and by the way, the lobster there is delicious. Make sure you eat it all. Soon, you won’t even be able to afford the shells.”

I hung up. My father patted my shoulder. “Well done, sweetheart. Now go rest. Let me finish taking out the trash.”

But I shook my head. “No, Dad. I want to watch. I want to see him squirm in the mud pit he dug for himself.”

Sixty minutes later, the real storm hit. Ethan’s phone became a time bomb, ringing incessantly with calls of doom.

“Mr. Thompson, it’s a disaster!” His head accountant’s frantic voice shrieked through the speaker phone. “The IRS is raiding the office. They’re seizing all our files. They’re saying the company is guilty of tax evasion, fraud, and money laundering.”

“What?” Ethan dropped his phone into a bowl of sauce. Before he could process it, another call came in—the bank manager. “Ethan, the loan on your condo and your Maybach is now in default. We are proceeding with immediate repossession of the assets.”

Ethan’s ears were ringing. He collapsed back into his chair, his legs turning to jelly. “Mom,” he whispered, “it’s all gone. Everything is gone.”

Sarah, terrified, quickly ended her live stream. “Are you kidding? Then who’s going to pay for dinner?”

He fumbled for his wallet where he had the black card—my card with the fifty-thousand-dollar limit. It was like a drowning man grasping at driftwood. “It’s fine. I still have Olivia’s card. One swipe and we’re done.”

But when the bill arrived—fifteen hundred eighty dollars and seventy-five cents—and he handed over the black card, the waiter ran it through the machine. Beep, beep, beep. A red error light flashed.

“I’m sorry, sir. The transaction has been declined.”

“Declined? Do you even know how to use that thing?” Ethan yelled. “That card has a fifty-thousand-dollar limit!”

The waiter tried again. The same shrill electronic shriek of failure. Transaction declined.

I had locked the card. And the bank had frozen his accounts. He was now standing in a luxury restaurant with a fifteen-hundred-dollar bill and not enough cash in his pocket to pay for it.

The restaurant manager came over, looking Ethan up and down with unconcealed contempt. “What’s the problem here? Planning on a dine-and-dash? If you don’t have the money, you can leave your watch or your phone as collateral.”

Trembling, Ethan took off his watch—a cheap replica. The manager picked it up, glanced at it, and tossed it back. “This is a fake. Security, lock the doors and call the police.”

At the mention of police, Brenda threw herself on the floor and began to wail. Ethan stood frozen. In desperation, he tried calling his friends, but every number was blocked or busy.

Then his phone screen lit up with a text from me: “What’s wrong, darling? Card not working? Should I tell my dad to buy the restaurant and comp your meal? Oh, but wait—my dad says he doesn’t support freeloaders.”

Ethan stared at the message, then at the security guards approaching. He knew then that hell had just opened its gates to welcome him.

A week after the funeral, I was sorting through my life when the doorbell rang. Through the peephole, I saw Stephanie standing between my parents on the porch, all three wearing appropriately somber expressions. I considered not answering, but I needed closure.

I opened the door without greeting them. “Why are you here?”

My mother looked taken aback. “Darling, we’re here to check on you.”

“So concerned that none of you came to say goodbye when he was dying,” I said flatly.

An uncomfortable silence fell. Then my father spoke about the house being too big for me, about selling while the market was good. Stephanie mentioned financial advisors for when the insurance came through.

There it was—the real purpose laid bare.

I spread out the documents Bobby had left me—bank records showing unauthorized access attempts, text messages discussing how to manage my expected inheritance.

“Would you like to explain these?”

The color drained from their faces. “Bobby found them. He knew what you were doing.”

I pulled out the final document—Bobby’s updated will. “He changed everything. The house is paid off. The insurance names only me as beneficiary.”

My father’s face darkened. “That’s gratitude for you.”

“What exactly have you done, Dad? You didn’t help during his illness. You didn’t even come to his funeral.”

My mother blurted the truth: “A firefighter! You could have married a doctor, had financial security.”

“Bobby was worth a hundred of you,” I said quietly. “What’s best for me is never seeing any of you again.”

I walked to the door and held it open. “Please leave and don’t come back.”

As I closed the door behind them, a strange feeling washed over me—not loneliness, but freedom.

The months that followed were honest. I returned to work, where colleagues welcomed me with understanding. Captain Miller and Bobby’s firefighters remained present, showing up regularly to help.

I reconnected with Jason, Bobby’s brother, who shared stories of Bobby as a child. His family invited me for dinners, incorporating me into their lives with natural ease.

On the one-year anniversary, I held a memorial by the lake. We planted an oak tree with a simple plaque: “Robert Mitchell, beloved husband, brother, friend. His love continues to grow.”

Two years after Bobby’s death, I sat on our front porch watching a summer storm roll in. The betrayal had taught me that family isn’t defined by blood but by presence, that love is demonstrated through actions, that loss while devastating can also be clarifying.

Bobby had seen the truth before I was ready to acknowledge it. His final act of protection had given me the freedom to rebuild on my own terms.

I still miss him every day. But now when I think of Bobby, my first thought isn’t of loss—it’s of gratitude for the love we shared and the strength he helped me discover. True family isn’t always who we’re born to. Sometimes it’s the people who show up when everyone else walks away.