Amber Fleck
After getting remarried, I started renting out my husband.
Whenever his “one true love” called, he’d leave my side without hesitation. I stopped begging, stopped crying, and started charging by the hour instead.
Daytime rates: $15,000 an hour.
Evenings: $30,000 an hour.
Holidays: triple rate.
Three months later, my account had grown by nearly $3 million.
He promised to help me pick out a gown for a formal dinner, but then she called in tears because she’d nicked her hand while cooking. I didn’t argue. I just held out my payment QR code.
One night, I spiked a high fever. On the way to the hospital, she called again, saying the thunder was too loud and she was scared to sleep alone. I quietly took out an umbrella and told my husband to drop me off at the next corner.
When he looked at me like he wanted to say something, I only smiled. “Don’t forget to send the money.”
Then came the day our daughter was due for a follow-up appointment at the hospital.
She called again.
“Hugo wants to go to the amusement park. Those big rides really need a man around...”
After hanging up, he turned toward our daughter, about to crouch down and explain.
But before he could speak, our daughter copied me and held out her hand.
“It’s okay, Daddy. Just send the money. Today’s a holiday, so that’s triple.”