He Thanked The Wrong Wife

The photo showed them kissing in a bright, spacious apartment.

Something inside me snapped.

I worked myself past exhaustion. Lost two children.

Meanwhile, Edward and Margot were celebrating a new life.

He used my blood and sweat to buy her an apartment. Planned to toast it in style.

And me?

Just their long-term ATM. Run into the ground and tossed aside.

My hands shook as I screenshotted every post on Margot's timeline.

Edward, if you can be this heartless, don't blame me for getting ruthless.

You used my money to buy that apartment. To throw that party.

How could I not show up?

That night, I didn't sleep.

All I could hear was the memory of his steps. Steady. Quick. Effortless.

For someone who'd supposedly had ALS for four years?

How was he walking like that?

The question squeezed my chest until I could barely breathe.

***

At dawn, while he was still asleep, I grabbed our marriage certificate and called a cab to the rehab center where he'd been "treated" for four years.

First time I'd ever been there.

Every time I offered to go with him, he shut it down.

"The rehab's ugly. I don't want you seeing me like that. You work so hard—just rest when you can. Don't worry about me."

I believed him.

Was even touched.

So I kept making him healthy homemade soup.

And lived on crackers and water.

The rehab center wasn't big.

The front desk nurse remembered him right away.

"Oh, I remember him. Very inspiring patient. He was discharged two years ago—fully recovered."

Fully recovered.

My fingers dug into the marriage certificate. My knees almost gave out.

Seeing my face go white, she hurried to call his attending doctor.

My head was spinning. Eyes burning, I forced the words out.

"Dr. Weldon, I'm Edward Godfrey's wife. I need to ask about his condition."

Dr. Weldon led me into his office. Quiet. Hesitant.

The dread in my chest got heavier with every step.

My voice came out rough. "Dr. Weldon, please. Just tell me. I can handle it."

He set a medical file on the desk. "Mrs. Godfrey, this has weighed on me. Your husband never had ALS. Four years ago, it was a misdiagnosis. The final diagnosis was nerve damage.

"The hospital gave him a fifty-thousand-dollar settlement and free rehab. He fully recovered two years ago."

The words hit like a bomb.

Fully recovered?

Then why was I paying massive "treatment fees" every month for four years?

Why was he still in a wheelchair?

Why was he coming here every week?

Dr. Weldon lowered his voice, anger slipping through. "He said he needed a reason to keep 'recuperating' so he could finish his PhD smoothly.

"When he came in each week, he mostly just talked with me.

"The hospital didn't want the misdiagnosis getting out, so as part of the settlement, they kept it confidential."

Dr. Weldon slid the file toward me. "I heard you've had a hard few years taking care of him. You should have this."

I stared at the stack of records.

Right then, I wanted to tear Edward apart.

Two years ago, he told me his recovery had hit a "critical stage." Said he needed imported medication—ten thousand dollars a course.

I didn't hesitate.

I sold the house my grandmother left me just to pay for three rounds.

When I gave him the money, he held me and cried.

"Linsay, when I'm better, I'll make you the happiest woman in the world."

Yeah.

Turns out the only thing he cured was his bank account.

Every dollar went to Margot.