My MIL Needed Chemotherapy – A Year Later, I Learned Where the Money Really Went

I parked far enough away to keep my distance. My hands were clammy on the steering wheel, and my pulse raced in my ears. A few minutes later, a woman approached his car.

She looked about Gail’s age — late fifties — with a scarf tied carefully over her head. She leaned heavily on Ethan’s arm, moving with an exaggerated limp. For a split second, relief washed over me.

Maybe Mrs. Parker had been wrong. Maybe this was Gail, and everything I feared was just paranoia.

But then I noticed how the woman’s eyes darted around, as though she was scanning for cues. Ethan leaned in and whispered something, and she nodded too quickly, like a nervous actress waiting for her line. I sat frozen, gripping the steering wheel.

Not long after, they returned to the car. There were no medical papers, no nurse escort, and no evidence of treatment. Just Ethan, whispering low enough for me to catch only a fragment of his words.

“You did great. Same time, next week?” he asked. The woman smiled thinly, handed him a folded envelope, and walked away in the opposite direction.

And in that moment, the bottom dropped out of my world. That woman wasn’t Gail. There was no cancer.

None of it had ever been real. I didn’t confront my husband that night. Instead, I smiled, kissed him goodnight, and waited until his breathing grew steady beside me.

When I was sure he was asleep, I slipped out of bed and into his office, my heart pounding in my ears. His laptop sat on the desk, half-closed. My palms were slick with sweat as I lifted it, hesitating for a moment before opening it fully.

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