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

It wasn’t the kind of exhaustion that carves itself into your bones. It was surface-level tired, the kind that comes from pretending. “How’s your mom today?” I asked him, pushing my salad around my plate.

“Did the treatment wear her out again?”

“Yeah,” he said, stabbing a piece of his steak. “It was a rough day. But she’s fighting.”

“She’s lucky to have you,” I murmured, keeping my voice steady.

Inside, though, my chest was tightening. “But I told you, if you need me to tag-team and spend some time with her, just let me know.”

“Thanks, Kate,” he said, not even looking up from his food. “But she’s private.

She’d hate that.”

The truth was, although I’d met Gail before, we’d never spent enough time together for me to know her well. When Ethan said that his mother liked her space, I didn’t want to push myself into her space. So, while I could recall the gentle tilt of her smile and the way she’d complimented my dress at the wedding, I truly didn’t know her well enough to call every detail to mind.

In hindsight, I realized how little I really knew about her. It made it easier for him to blur the lines. Honestly, if I saw her across a parking lot, I wasn’t sure I would recognize her immediately.

And that gap in closeness had left me vulnerable. Even now, during her chemo sessions, “Gail” always chose to go during my work hours, and with me working during the weekends, I hadn’t been as present as I should have been. I figured that because I was paying the bills, my presence didn’t really matter.

Now, I knew how wrong I was. Two days later, Ethan said he was driving his mom to another appointment. I smiled, told him I had a few meetings lined up, and waited until he left.

Then I grabbed my keys and followed. He didn’t go to the hospital. Instead, he pulled into a small medical complex across town.

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