I stood still.
The treatments would cost more than we could afford. Thomas works hard, but he doesn’t earn much. He has no savings. I do. I’ve spent years building a financial cushion—late nights, skipped vacations, careful budgeting. That money is my safety net. My future security.
Two nights after the diagnosis, Thomas sat across from me at the kitchen table.
“Simone,” he said quietly, “we need to use your savings for Jake’s treatment.”
My chest tightened. I had been expecting this.
“I’m sorry,” I said, keeping my voice steady. “Your son isn’t my responsibility. That money is meant to secure my future.”
Even as I said it, I felt something heavy settle in the room.
Thomas didn’t shout. He didn’t cry. He simply smiled—calm, almost eerily calm.
“You will end up begging me,” he said.
I frowned. “What does that even mean?”
He stood up and walked away.
That night, I stayed late at work, trying to avoid the tension at home. When I finally pulled into the driveway, something felt wrong. The porch light was off. The curtains were open.
Inside, boxes were stacked in the hallway.
Thomas was in our bedroom, folding clothes into a suitcase.
“What are you doing?” I demanded.
He didn’t look up. “Packing.”
“For what?”
“I put the house up for sale today.”
The words didn’t register.
“You what?”
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