The Househusband Said Enough
For over thirty years, my wife Janet faked being broke—for her flimsy ex.
When our son Asher landed in the hospital, I begged and borrowed from everyone I knew. Still came up fifty bucks short.
Janet? Said she was tapped out.
So my mom sold off her own meds to cover the bill—never told me.
She died without treatment.
I handled my mom's funeral alone. When I went to pick up Asher from the hospital, I found a stash of Janet's old shopping receipts.
Custom suits. Million-dollar watches. A damn private jet.
I grabbed them and stormed off to confront her.
Asher cut me off. "Dad, Mr. Sackett's sick. Mom's just helping him out. Why are you freaking out?"
I stared at the kid who only lived because my mom died. It felt like something cracked inside me.
Janet barely looked up. "Connor's educated. He deserves the finer things. Unlike you—crying over fifty bucks like some househusband. See? I didn't give you the money, and Asher's fine."
Fine.
If that's how they see it, I'm done with this family.