The Treatment He Never Needed
A few months ago, Kyle came home looking pale, holding a folder of medical test results. His hands trembled, his face was drawn.
“Laura,” he said, voice shaking, “I have muscular dystrophy. I can’t work anymore. The treatment is expensive, but it’s my only chance.”
My heart shattered. We had been married for six years, and he had always been strong, my rock. Now, he needed me.
I picked up extra shifts. I cleaned tables at the diner in the morning, worked the register at a pharmacy in the afternoon, and scrubbed floors at a restaurant at night. Every penny went to Kyle’s “treatments.”
At first, he seemed to struggle—limping slightly, moving slower. But soon, he started smiling again, laughing more. Maybe the treatment was working, I thought. So I pushed harder, working myself to exhaustion to afford the best care for him.
Then, one evening, as I walked toward the restaurant for my shift, a white SUV pulled up beside me. The passenger window rolled down, and a woman with sharp eyes peered out.
“Is Kyle your husband?” she asked.
I hesitated. “Yes… why?”
She scoffed. “You should check where he’s going for his ‘treatments.'” Then she sped off, leaving me frozen in the street.
I barely slept that night. Her words played over and over in my mind.
The next morning, when Kyle grabbed his “treatment” bag and left, I followed.
He walked two blocks down. Took a left. Entered a building.
A casino.
My stomach dropped.
I watched as he greeted the doorman with a grin, pulled a thick wad of cash from his pocket, and strolled inside like a king.
I felt like I was going to be sick.
The “treatment” he needed so badly? Gambling. The muscular dystrophy? A complete lie.
I stood there, shaking, my hands clenched into fists. The late nights, the exhaustion, the sacrifices—all for nothing.
I took a deep breath, turned on my heel, and walked home. I had a plan.
That night, Kyle came home, looking concerned.
“Hey babe, you look tired,” he said. “You’ve been working too hard.”
I forced a smile. “You’re right. So, I made a decision today.”
His face lit up. “Yeah? What?”
I leaned in, my voice gentle. “I quit my jobs.”
His smile faltered. “What?”
“Well, I realized something important today,” I said, tilting my head. “You don’t actually need treatment.”
His face went pale.
“I saw you, Kyle.”
Silence.
Then, a nervous chuckle. “Babe, I can explain—”
“Don’t bother.” I stood up, grabbed my bag, and headed for the door. “I hope you enjoy the winnings, Kyle. Because I emptied our account before I quit. Every last dollar.”
And with that, I walked away.