I Came Home Early And Found Out Where Four Years Of My Money Went

I pushed the door open.

My suitcase hit the floor.

Brianna dropped her glass. Theresa grabbed her chest. Lucy stared at me as if I were a ghost.

"Nathan..."

I crossed the yard and knelt beside my wife. She felt terrifyingly light in my arms and smelled faintly of bleach, medicine, and damp clothes.

"I'm back, honey."

She kept repeating my name.

Theresa immediately insisted things weren't what they looked like. She accused Lucy of becoming unbearable after getting sick, demanding money, breaking things, even stealing jewelry.

I looked directly at the hummingbird pendant around my mother's neck.

"Like that one?"

Theresa covered it with her hand.

Lucy told me she'd tried to sell the necklace to pay for a doctor's visit, and Theresa had taken it.

Then I asked the question nobody wanted to answer.

"What illness does she have?"

Lucy touched her chest.

"Cancer."

Eleven months.

For eleven months, I'd been sending money while my wife was sick.

Theresa argued that treatment was expensive and there were no guarantees. But everywhere I looked, my money was visible: new floors, a massive TV, leather furniture, granite countertops, the SUV outside, Brianna's top-of-the-line phone.

Lucy had broken sandals and a six-year-old blouse.

"How much of my money did you use for her treatment?"

Theresa finally admitted they had paid for a few visits.

Lucy corrected her.