My husband handed me divorce papers right in the ICU.
“Sign it. I want a perfect wife, not a burden in a wheelchair.”
I signed immediately.
He smiled coldly and said, “Pay the hospital bills yourself.”
I simply replied, “Okay.”
My husband handed me the divorce papers in the middle of the ICU.
I signed it on the spot.
He flashed a cold smile.
“Pay your own hospital bills.”
I just said okay.
And he had no idea that my name on that paper was the beginning of his end.
The room was too white, the light harsh, the air thick with the smell of disinfectant.
The sheets were pulled so tight it was as if the hospital wanted to hide any sign of weakness.
The monitor beside me kept an irritating rhythm.
Beep, beep, beep.
The most expensive and coldest sound in existence.
My right leg was immobilized.
The doctor swore I would walk again with time and physical therapy.
Time was all I had.
What I didn’t have was patience for humiliation.
I heard rushed footsteps down the hall before the door swung open.
The steps of someone who isn’t coming out of love but to finish a job.
He came in first, not really looking at me, a cheap manila envelope in his hand.
Behind him, my mother-in-law appeared, looking completely lost.
She clutched her purse tightly and avoided my eyes.
Her mouth trembled, but she said nothing.
My husband dragged a chair over with a screech, dropping the envelope on the bedside table.
The pen was attached with a string as if even the pen were a captive.
He opened the envelope slowly.
The petition was already prepared.
Name, social security number, date, all in perfect lines.
His signature at the bottom was crooked, nervous.
I recognized the haste in it.
“Sign it.”
It wasn’t a request.
It was an order.
He leaned close to my face as if I were deaf.
“I want a perfect wife. Not a burden in a wheelchair.”
A burden.
The word didn’t wound me.
It just confirmed something.
And when something is confirmed, it becomes a decision.
My mother-in-law cleared her throat softly.
Her eyes said this was wrong, but her body said she wouldn’t stop it.
I had learned early on that in her family, silence was a form of worship.
“And the expenses?” I asked, my voice steady.
He let out a short, joyless laugh.
I stared at him for a second, not to ask for an explanation, but to record the scene exactly as it was.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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