On the day I donated a kidney to my mother-in-law, Daniel Brooks used the money I had set aside to hire a caregiver to buy his cousin, Chloe Miller, a Chanel outfit.
Chloe couldn’t wait to show off on social media:
“Someone said that even if I never work a day in my life, he’ll still take care of me. A man who keeps his word is so handsome!”
Trying to be considerate toward the younger generation, I kindly commented:
“A woman should always rely on herself.”
The next second, that comment was deleted.
My husband called, immediately lashing out at me:
“It’s just a damn dress—why are you making such a big deal out of it? I have to get your permission to buy something for my sister? If you like lecturing people so much, why don’t you become a teacher?”
Through the receiver, I could hear Chloe’s pitiful sobs.
Before I could explain, he hung up and blocked me.
When I came out of the operating room, I saw a notification: the two million I had saved for our future child’s expenses had been completely transferred out.
At the same time, Chloe posted a photo of a pink Porsche 911.
I knew—this was Daniel’s “compensation” to her.
But this time, I didn’t care anymore.
Margaret Brooks was in the late stages of kidney failure, and the critical condition notice had already been issued three times.
I had called Daniel over a hundred times, but he hadn’t replied once.
It wasn’t until the doctor came out of the operating room, delivering the final ultimatum for the kidney transplant, that I shakily picked up my phone, intending to contact him one last time.
Instead, I saw Chloe’s latest post.
The photo showed a brand-new Chanel gift box—inside was a dress, along with several matching silk scarves from the brand.
She smiled sweetly, holding the box and making a heart sign with her fingers.
The caption read:
“Someone said that even if I never work a day in my life, he’ll still take care of me. A man who keeps his word is so handsome!”
Daniel’s reply was short—only three words:
“Mm, I’ll take care of you.”
The comments section was full of blessings from mutual friends, except for one person who voiced concern:
“That new Chanel dress doesn’t look cheap… Isn’t your mom about to have surgery? Isn’t your wife handling it? Aren’t you afraid she’ll divorce you?”
The next second, Daniel snapped back:
“Once the surgery’s over, she’ll be down a kidney and basically useless. And we’ve been married for seven years with no sign of a baby—probably infertility. I’ve been merciful enough not to ask for a divorce. Do you think she’d dare bring it up?”
I stared at the money I had planned to use for a caregiver, now turned into a Chanel gift box.
Even my well-intentioned comment to Chloe had been deleted.
Angry, I sent him a message to confront him:
“What’s that supposed to mean? Mom’s about to have surgery, you’re not replying or coming to sign the consent forms, but you have time to buy Chanel for your ‘sister’?”
But instead of guilt, he was even angrier, calling me back immediately:
“I need your approval to buy something for someone? Isn’t my mom being taken care of by you? If you can’t handle something this small, what’s the point of being married to you?”
“I told you I was busy, and Chloe bought that dress herself. Stop acting like some bitter, paranoid wife. If anything were going on between us, it would’ve happened long before you came into the picture.”
After venting, he hung up on me.
When I tried calling again, his phone was already turned off.
He had blocked me.
If it weren’t for the fact that Margaret had been kind to me all these years, I would’ve walked away right then.
But my conscience wouldn’t allow it.
In the end, I was the one who signed the consent form for her surgery.
The doctor couldn’t reach Daniel, and could only reluctantly turn a blind eye to the procedural violation.
The surgery lasted eight hours.
As the anesthesia took hold, countless thoughts flooded my mind.
