My greatest sources of motivation are our two boys, Jake and Liam.
Twelve-year-old Liam has a gift for science and a naturally curious mind. He’s always experimenting with gadgets or asking nonstop questions about how things work. Then there’s Jake — our little athlete — who’s ten years old. He’s the kind of kid who’s always racing his bike down the street or kicking a soccer ball around the neighborhood.
And then, there’s Kyle — my husband of fifteen years.
Kyle has always been my rock. He’s the calm in my chaos, the steady force keeping our family grounded.
He worked as an operations manager at a logistics company. It kept him busy, but the pay was good, and we lived comfortably.
Sometimes, as I watched him laugh with the boys or share stories at the dinner table, I’d think, “I’m so lucky.”
Life was good.
But everything changed one afternoon when Kyle showed up at the front door with a folder in hand and a ghostly expression on his face.
I looked up from my laptop. “Hey, you’re home early,” I said. But one look at him, and I knew — something was very wrong.
He placed the folder on the table. His lips were tightly pressed together, and his face was pale.
“Kyle? What happened?” My heart started to race as I stood up and walked toward him. “Is everything okay?”
He looked at me, and there was something in his eyes I couldn’t quite read.
Was it fear? Guilt? I still don’t know.
His voice trembled as he said, “Laura… I have muscular dystrophy.”
Everything in me froze. “What?”
He sank into a chair and wiped his face with both hands.
“I’ve been feeling strange for months. I saw a doctor and had some tests done… this explains the exhaustion.”
I couldn’t speak.
“I can’t work anymore,” he continued. “Treatment is my only hope — but it’s going to be expensive.”
My breath caught. Muscular dystrophy. The words echoed in my head like a curse.
I sat across from him and opened the folder.
Inside were test results, doctor’s notes, and medical records. It all looked… serious.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t want to tell you like this, but I have to start treatment. I think we’ll have to cancel the boys’ trip. I hate that the kids have to go through this.”
I reached across the table and held his hands. “Stop, Kyle. The boys will understand. We’ll figure it out. You’re going to get the care you need.”
His eyes filled with tears. “I’m sorry you have to deal with this.”
I squeezed his hand. “I’m your wife. We’ll get through this together.”
But even as I said it, a cold dread settled in my stomach.
How will we afford this?
I couldn’t stop thinking about it that night, lying awake next to him.
“We’ll need more money,” I whispered, staring at the ceiling.
Kyle turned to me. “I don’t want you working yourself to the bone for me, Laura.”
“I can do this.” I looked at him with determination. “I’ll find a part-time job after work. We’ll cut back on spending. You’ll quit and focus on getting better.”
His lips trembled. “You’d really do that?”
“Of course.”
The next day, I got a part-time job cleaning tables at a local restaurant. After finishing my day at the software firm, I’d go straight there to work the evening shift.
It was exhausting — but I didn’t care.
I gave Kyle almost everything I made so he could begin therapy. And I saw the change in him. He seemed calmer, more at peace.
Even when I was beyond tired, seeing that gave me the strength to keep going.
It became routine: work all day, clean at night, collapse into bed.
But whenever Kyle smiled or said, “Thank you for everything, Laura,” I remembered why I was doing it.
On weekdays, while I was working, he’d go to his treatments.
“It’s better if I go alone,” he’d say. “I don’t want you to miss work.”
I never questioned it. I trusted him completely.
Until one night — something strange happened.
It was cold, and I was walking to the restaurant, bundled in my coat, when a white SUV pulled up beside me. A stylish woman with dark glasses and neat hair rolled down the window.
She leaned over. “Are you Laura?”
I froze, gripping my bag tighter. “Yes… Who’s asking?”
She took off her sunglasses. Her eyes were sharp. “Is Kyle your husband?”
“Yes,” I said. “Why? Is something wrong?”
She gave a knowing smirk and tilted her head. “Oh, he’s fine. But you might want to look into where he’s really going for those ‘treatments.’ And while you’re at it — check his bank statements.”
I blinked. “What? Who are you? What are you talking about?”
She pressed her lips together like she was choosing her words carefully. Then she rolled the window back up and said, “Let’s just say I’m doing you a favor.”
And with that, the SUV pulled away, leaving me frozen on the sidewalk.
What just happened?
I thought about her words the entire walk to work. Who was she? How did she know Kyle?
That night, Kyle was asleep when I got home.
I sat at the kitchen table, staring at the clock, unable to shake the feeling that something wasn’t right.
The next morning, he grabbed his usual bag and kissed me on the cheek before heading out.
“I’ll be home around three,” he said. “I have two treatments today. One of them is in the evening.”
“At night?” I asked.
“Yeah, special appointment.”
I forced a smile. “Okay. Be careful.”
As soon as he left, I opened his laptop. My hands trembled. I told myself this wasn’t spying — I just needed peace of mind.
But my stomach dropped as I scanned through his bank statements.
No payments to hospitals. No therapy bills. Nothing medical at all.
Instead: charges for restaurants, golf club memberships, expensive clothing stores, even a charge for a weekend getaway I’d never heard of.
What is this?
I scrolled faster, hoping I missed something. But it was clear.
Kyle wasn’t paying for treatments. He was spending our money — my money — on luxuries I never knew about.
I shut the laptop, shaking.
That night, I followed him.
My heart pounded with every step as I stayed far behind.
But Kyle didn’t go to any clinic or hospital.
He walked into a downtown bar — a lively place where people went to unwind and drink.
I stood frozen outside, watching him joke and laugh with his friends like nothing was wrong.
Then I heard him say, “Told you I could fake it for three months!”
His friends burst into laughter.
One said, “Man, I can’t believe she actually bought it.”
Kyle leaned back in his chair. “Hook, line, and sinker. Told her I was too sick to work. Now I’ve got more time to hang with you guys.”
My heart shattered.
Another friend added, “And she’s still giving you money?”
“Yep,” Kyle said proudly. “She even picked up a second job. There’s something to be said for marrying someone so naive.”
It felt like a knife through the chest.
I turned and walked away, tears clouding my vision.
As I left, I saw the same white SUV parked nearby. The woman inside rolled down her window when she saw me.
“You saw?” she asked quietly.
I nodded.
She sighed. “I’m sorry. My boyfriend is one of his friends. When I found out what they were doing, I couldn’t keep it to myself. You deserved to know.”
“Thank you,” I whispered, barely able to speak.
That night, I said nothing to Kyle.
I listened to him go on about his “painful treatments” and “encouraging results” as I silently ate my dinner.
But the next morning, I took action.
I called his workplace and told them Kyle was fit to return to work.
Then I went to the bank and froze our joint account. I opened a new one in my name and used what was left to pay off our mortgage.
When I was done, I sent Kyle a message:
“The real illness is your cruelty and your ego. Don’t bother coming home.”
Then I packed our things, took the boys to my parents’ house, and left that house — and that man — behind.
He tried calling for weeks. I never picked up.
Instead, I filed for divorce. I’m waiting for it to be finalized.
And I’m finally healing — not just from the lies, but from the love I thought I had.