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

Every movement felt mechanical, like I was playing a role in a life that was no longer mine. Ethan walked in, yawning, stretching his arms overhead. He leaned down to kiss my cheek, oblivious.

“Wow,” he said, smiling. “What’s the occasion?”

“I just thought we could start the day together,” I answered softly, sliding his plate across the table. “It’s been a while.

I know you’ve been so caught up with your mom.”

He sat, humming as he poured his coffee, reaching for his fork. That was when I pushed the stack of papers across the table toward him. “But before you eat, Ethan,” I said.

“Why don’t you take a look at these?”

His smile faltered as he flipped through the documents — emails, the mortgage forms, the photograph of Jenna outside a model home. Quickly, his confusion gave way to panic, then to anger. “What the hell is this, Kate?” he demanded.

“This is the truth, plain and simple,” I said. “The house. The mistress.

The woman pretending to be your dying mother. And you know… the transactions of the money I gave you, thinking it was saving your mother’s life.”

“You went through my stuff?!” he shouted, slamming his fist against the table so hard the dishes rattled. “You had no damn right!”

“I had every right,” I shot back.

“You lied to me. You invented a way to drain me dry. And you knew I’d never question your mother’s health.

You are a sick man, Ethan.”

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