“They’ve been doing the same to me for years, Jade. Taking a little here, a little there. ‘For your care, Victor,’ they say. Meanwhile, the heat is turned down to fifty-eight to save a few bucks. My medications are sometimes delayed because ‘money is tight,’ yet Elaine walks in with a new designer purse the next day.”
I felt sick. Physically ill.
This wasn’t just a ruined holiday. It wasn’t even just the sharp sting of an affair. This was a calculated, systemic abandonment. They had discarded me, and they had discarded Victor, leaving us both to rot while they drank champagne on our dime.
My phone rang in my hand. It was Leah, my best friend. Probably calling to wish me a Happy Thanksgiving.
I silenced the call. I couldn’t speak to anyone. I couldn’t explain the depth of this humiliation yet.
“There’s leftover soup,” Victor offered gently. “Not much of a Thanksgiving feast, but it’ll do.”
I looked around the kitchen. There were dirty dishes piled in the sink—encrusted plates they hadn’t bothered to wash before jetting off to paradise. Empty takeout containers littered the counter. The disrespect was palpable in every crumb.
Something inside me hardened. It was a cold, steel rod replacing my spine.
“No,” I said firmly.
Victor blinked. “No?”
“We deserve better than leftover soup.” I stood up, grabbing my coat and purse. “I’m going to the grocery store. They might still be open for last-minute shoppers. They might have some turkey breasts and potatoes left. We are having a proper meal today.”
Victor looked surprised, then a slow, genuine smile touched his lips. “Haven’t had a home-cooked meal in months. Brady always brings fast food when he bothers to come by.”
The grocery store was a blur of frantic energy and bad elevator music. My mind whirled with questions and emotions, cycling between grief and rage.
How long? How long had Brady been planning to leave me? Was our entire five-year marriage just a convenient arrangement for him? A way to split rent until something better came along?
I moved mechanically through the aisles, selecting a small turkey breast, a bag of potatoes, fresh green beans. I barely registered the other shoppers, happy families grabbing forgotten cranberry sauce or extra wine. I felt like a ghost haunting a life I used to have.
When I returned to the house, the atmosphere had shifted.
Victor had managed to clear the garbage from the kitchen counter. He was sitting at the table, surrounded by a stack of paperwork he must have retrieved from somewhere.
“What’s all this?” I asked, setting down the grocery bags.
“Evidence,” he replied. His blue eyes, previously tired, were suddenly steely. “Bank statements. Medical records. Documented neglect. I’ve been keeping track for months.”
He pushed a manila folder toward me across the table. “Brady and Elaine think I’m just a burden waiting to die. They don’t know I’ve been watching them strip my accounts while providing the bare minimum of care.”
I approached the table and opened the folder. It was meticulous. Detailed handwritten notes, account statements with suspicious transfers highlighted in yellow, copies of medical recommendations that had clearly been ignored.
“Why are you showing me this?” I asked, unsettled by the methodical nature of it all.
Victor leaned forward. He looked less frail now, fueled by a dark energy. “Because you’ve been wrong too, Jade. And because I don’t have much time left.”
He tapped a medical report sitting on top of the pile. “Terminal cancer. Pancreatic. Three months at most.”
I sat down heavily across from him, the breath leaving my lungs. “I’m… I’m so sorry, Victor.”
He waved away my sympathy with an impatient hand. “Don’t be sorry. Be smart.” He looked at me with unexpected intensity. “They think they’ve left you with a burden. A dying old man to wipe up after. But they’ve actually given us an opportunity.”
“An opportunity for what?”
Victor’s thin lips curved into a smile that transformed his face from that of a victim to that of a predator. “For justice.”
He reached for a thick envelope and slid it across the table to rest beside my hand. “Inside is my real will and trust documents. Not the one Brady and Elaine think exists.”
I stared at the envelope. I didn’t touch it. “Victor, I don’t understand.”
He leaned back in his chair, the wood creaking, and studied me. “Shall we begin?”
Those three words hung in the air between us, loaded with possibility and hidden meaning. Before I could respond, he explained his proposition.
He wanted help. He needed me to help him document the family’s neglect and betrayal—to build an undeniable case. He needed assistance with his final arrangements.
In exchange, he would ensure I was taken care of financially after he was gone. The family who abandoned us both would lose everything they thought was coming to them.
I stared at him. This was a man I barely knew, a man my husband had dismissed as senile and burdensome. Yet, in this kitchen, surrounded by the debris of our shattered lives, I felt a profound connection to him. We had both been deceived. We had both been discarded by the exact same people.
Outside, the late afternoon shadows were lengthening across the empty driveway where a family should have been parking their cars. Inside, an unexpected alliance was forming.
“Yes,” I said finally. The firmness in my voice surprised me. “Let’s begin.”
Victor let out a long breath and sank back into his chair, the adrenaline fading to reveal the exhaustion beneath. The slump of his shoulders was painful to watch.
“You should rest,” I said, my instincts kicking in. “I’ll finish making our dinner.”
Victor shook his head. “First, there’s something you need to see.” He pushed himself up with significant effort. “My medical records. You need to understand what we’re working with and how little time we actually have.”
He led me down the hall to a small bedroom that had clearly once been an office. It had been converted into a makeshift sleeping space. A hospital bed occupied one corner, cold and clinical, though it looked unused. Instead, a regular twin bed was pushed against the opposite wall, the sheets rumpled.
“Can’t stand that contraption,” he explained, gesturing vaguely at the hospital bed. “Makes me feel like I’m already in hospice.”
He moved to a desk in the corner, unlocked a drawer, and withdrew a thick folder labeled simply: MEDICAL. He handed it to me without ceremony.
“Pancreatic cancer,” he said flatly as I opened it. “Stage four. Diagnosed three months ago.”
I scanned the documents. My stomach tightened. The clinical descriptions were cold, but the story they told was grim. Oncologist notes, treatment plans that were never started, scan results showing metastasis.
“Two months,” Victor added softly. “Maybe less now. The last scan showed rapid progression.”
I looked up sharply. “Brady knows this?”
“Oh, yes. They all do.” His voice dripped with bitterness. “His mother was at the appointment when we got the diagnosis. Two days later, she started talking about how she ‘needed a break’ from caretaking.”
He let out a laugh that held absolutely no humor. “Sixty-six years old and claiming exhaustion while I’m dying at seventy-eight.”
The cruelty of it struck me like a physical blow. “They abandoned you knowing you only had months left?”
“Weeks, more likely.” Victor eased himself onto the edge of the twin bed. “But that’s not even the worst of it. Look at the medication list.”
I flipped to the prescription sheets. It was a heavy regimen: opioids for pain management, heavy-duty anti-nausea drugs, enzymes to help with digestion.
“Check the bathroom cabinet,” Victor directed, pointing to the en-suite door. “Compare what’s there with what should be there.”
I walked into the adjoining bathroom. It was messy, cluttered with pill bottles. I picked them up one by one, checking dates and quantities against the paperwork in my hand. Disturbing discrepancies began to emerge immediately.
The OxyContin had been refilled twice according to the pharmacy labels, yet the bottle was nearly full. The expensive enzyme supplements were only half-empty, but based on the dosage instructions, the bottle should have been almost bare.
“They’ve been diluting them,” Victor confirmed when I walked back into the bedroom, holding the bottles up as evidence. “One pill instead of two. Half doses of the pain medication. And those appointments for the palliative care specialist? Canceled.”
“Too expensive,” Elaine said.
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