My Cheating Husband's Fake Cancer Became a Real Death Sentence

To help my husband, Henry Carter, pay off a million-dollar debt, I clean windows and scrub toilets in an office building on Valentine's Day just for the triple pay.

After I'm done with the windows, I am about to transfer the last 50 thousand dollars of the debt when a post suddenly pops up on my phone.

The title of the post is, "What is something you see in real life that makes you feel sorry for someone, even if they are your enemy?"

One of the top comments says, "The person I hate the most is my boyfriend's wife. My boyfriend pretends to be poor to spend money on me and cheats his wife out of over a million. That woman works day and night at a cleaning company just to make money for me!

"This has gone on for eight years. That woman has been scrubbing toilets for eight years! Even if she is my enemy, I feel sorry for her."

I freeze, and my fingers tremble uncontrollably.

No way. It has to be a coincidence.

I stare at those words, stunned and unable to recover from the shock.

Then, a new comment appears, "Now, my boyfriend plans to fake an illness by telling his wife that he has cancer. He's going to trick her into giving him money to buy me a car."

At that exact moment, Henry sends me a message.

The instant I open it, I feel my heart skip a beat.

It reads, "I'm sorry, honey. I'm sick—I have cancer. The doctor says we need to prepare 80 thousand dollars for treatment. I hate myself for this. Why am I even alive? I'm just dragging you down with me."

The words "late-stage liver cancer" in the attached diagnosis report are painful to look at.

I think in dismay, "Henry, you do not need to pretend to be sick. You are indeed in the late stage of cancer."

The comments section exploded. "You and your boyfriend are a match made in heaven! You're just two shameless pieces of trash!"

Without hesitation, the user named Vivian blocked the commenter without hesitation and fired back with another post.

"Jealous much? My man's willing to play poor to fool his wife for me. That just shows how wanted I am. Someone like you couldn't get a man like him even if you begged for it!"

She continued to show off. "He just transferred 50 thousand to me! This is perfect for a trip to Malakor on Valentine's Day! Have you peasants ever touched the sand in Malakor?

"The dress I'm wearing is worth more than three months of that old hag scrubbing toilets. The gold Henry gave me two years ago is now worth 30 thousand more!" she boasted. "Those who love me thrive, while those who hate me stay broke!"

"Won't your boyfriend's wife lose it if she finds out the truth?" someone asked.

Vivian scoffed. "Lose it? She wouldn't. Henry's already terminally ill with cancer. What else can she do besides scrubbing the floors as a cleaner?"

The word cleaner stabbed at my heart.

I looked down at my hands. My knuckles were swollen and misshapen. The skin on the back of my hands looked like cracked, dried earth.

Eight years.

For over 2900 days and nights, I had spent the best years of my life paying off Henry Carter's startup debts.

I never took a day off or showed up late. Even with a 102-degree fever, I was still on my knees, cleaning toilets.

Cleaning chemicals had soaked into my fingers until they were wrinkled and raw. Calluses built up layer after layer on my knees. Years of bending over had wrecked my lower back.

Like an idiot, I even worked three jobs. I was a cashier during the day, a dishwasher at night, and a house cleaner on the weekends.

With less than five hours of sleep a day, I was so exhausted that I could fall asleep standing up.

I thought I was saving the man I loved, but it turned out that I was just footing the bill for someone else's romance.

A week ago, Henry was diagnosed with late-stage liver cancer.

The doctor pulled me aside and whispered, "He has at most one month left. Don't put him through treatment. Let him go peacefully."

I cried in the hospital hallway that night.

The next day, I spent 50 bucks getting someone to photoshop a fake clean bill of health just so he could enjoy what little time he had left without worry.

Yet all this time, he had been faking his illness to squeeze every last bit out of me.

My hands trembled as I opened Vivian's profile. Using the contact information she left behind, I added her on Twitter.

Her cover photo was a picture of a beach.

Henry had his arm around her waist. They were both smiling at the camera.

Behind them was clear blue water and a bright sky.

I kept scrolling until I reached her latest tweet.

"Anniversary with my beloved. Champagne, roses, and a sea-view suite. When you're with the right person, every day feels like Valentine's Day."

Sylvia Lynwood had posted a photo of a floor-to-ceiling window in Room 1001 of a luxury hotel. The river view outside glittered.

The location tag showed the time. It was posted at 10:00 pm last night.

Last night, Henry had texted me: "I'm working late. Going to crash at the office."

"Don't forget to take your stomach medicine," I replied, believing him.

I almost let out a laugh. A bitter feeling spread through my chest.

Stomach medicine?

What he needed were stamina pills to keep up with his mistress.

I opened my contacts and dialed a number I hadn't contacted in years.