I stared at him in disbelief. “I just saved your life!”
“And I appreciate that,” he said, adjusting his blanket as if we were talking about the weather. “But appreciation doesn’t equal love.”
I feared for Chloe more than I feared for myself.
When I was discharged, walking up the stairs at home felt like climbing a mountain. Chloe stayed close beside me, careful not to brush against my stitches.
“Does it hurt, Mommy?” she asked softly.
“A little,” I admitted. “But I’m strong.”
She hugged me gently. “I’m proud of you.”
Nick sat at the kitchen table scrolling through his phone, not even looking up.
Not wanting to dismiss his threat of divorce, I tried to prepare.
A week later, I logged into our joint bank account. My hands trembled as I saw the transfers: $5,000, $10,000, another $8,000 — withdrawals I had never approved.
That night, I confronted him.
“Where’s the money going?” I asked, holding up my phone.
He barely glanced at it. “I’m restructuring assets.”
“For what?”
“For my future.”
My breath caught. “What about our future?”
He gave me a cold look. “You still think there’s an ‘our’? I’ve already spoken to a lawyer about our divorce.”
“You really waited until after surgery to do this to me?”