I pulled him out of that world, and he found another. But my parting gift ruined them both.
*”I’m leaving you, Annie.”*
Those words, spoken in a flat, unfamiliar voice, sliced through the cosy evening silence like a knife.
A fork slipped from Annie’s numb fingers and clinked against her plate. The celebratory table she’d spent two hours preparing, the candles… all of it suddenly became a cruel, absurd stage set.
*”What? What do you mean—you’re leaving? Andrew, what are you saying?”* Her voice cracked. *”We’ve been through so much… and today’s our anniversary…”*
She’d wanted this evening to be special—ten years since their wedding. Just the two of them. A night meant to prove the worst was behind them.
After the accident, Andrew had changed—grown quiet, distant. Annie had chalked it up to slow recovery. She believed her love and care would melt that ice.
But now he wouldn’t even look at her. His gaze was fixed on his mother, who’d just barged into their home uninvited.
Margaret Whitmore, her mother-in-law, was glowing. Dressed as if for a gala, lips painted a garish red, she strode in and laid a possessive hand on her son’s shoulder. She hadn’t come to visit. She’d come to witness an execution.
*”Perfect timing—your anniversary!”* Her voice dripped venom. *”High time we ended this farce! I always knew my boy needed a woman of substance, not some nursemaid-slash-maid!”*
Annie’s heart skipped a beat. *Nursemaid-slash-maid*—was that what she was?
*”And I’ve found her!”* Margaret announced triumphantly, ignoring her daughter-in-law’s frozen expression. *”My best friend’s daughter, Jessica! Clever, gorgeous, owns a flat in Kensington! She won’t bore you with talk of ‘leftover stew,’ darling!”*
So, it had all been decided. While Annie had fought for his life, they’d been quietly auditioning her replacement. Shopping for an upgrade. Like she was a worn-out coat.
Andrew nodded along, agreeing with every word. No guilt, no remorse—just cold, exhausted indifference.
*”You see, Annie,”* he said, *”when I was lying there, helpless… I needed you. But now I’m back on my feet. I need a woman who inspires greatness, not one who reminds me of weakness.”*
That was it. Final. Undeniable. A verdict delivered by two people she’d loved and executed on her wedding anniversary.
Like a reel of silent film, the past year flickered before Annie’s eyes. Not a life—a survival.
She remembered *that* call. The detached, bureaucratic voice on the other end that began her personal hell: *”Your husband’s been in an accident. He’s in intensive care.”*
Then came the hospital. Endless white corridors reeking of bleach and despair. The first conversation with a weary surgeon rubbing his forehead.
*”Stable but critical,”* he’d said, eyes avoiding hers. *”We’ve done all we can. The rest… depends on care. And his will to live.”*
*”Care.”* That word became her sentence—and her mission.
The numbers in their bank account dwindled like March snow. She sat in the consultant’s office as he politely explained that free treatment had ended—real rehabilitation required money. A *lot* of money.
That same day, she went to the pawnshop. Took off her mother’s gold earrings, her last keepsake. The pawnbroker weighed them in his palm.
*”Sure about this, love? These are sentimental.”*
*”Sentiment won’t get him walking,”* she snapped, pocketing the crumpled notes.
Next went the necklace, the bracelet, then her thin wedding band—ripped off like skin.
When there was nothing left to sell, she took a second job. Days in a stuffy shop, nights as a carer. She slept three hours a night, napped on buses.
Margaret visited weekly—not to help, but to critique.
*”Why is he so pale? You’re starving him!”* she hissed while Annie mopped the hospital floor.
*”The doctor said broth only for now,”* Annie muttered.
*”Doctor! What does he know? You’ll kill him with that miserable face of yours! A man needs vitality, not sighing!”*
Not a penny of help. Not once.
Then came the physiotherapist—a cheerful bloke named Daniel.
*”Annie, this is a marathon, not a sprint,”* he’d say, guiding Andrew’s exercises. *”Every day. Through the ‘can’t,’ through the pain. Don’t let him pity himself. Pity’s poison now.”*
So she didn’t. She hauled him to the bathroom, massaged his stiff muscles until her fingers ached. Made him exercise through swearing and groans. Read to him so the silence wouldn’t drive him mad.
Her strength faded; his slowly returned. She grew thin, dark circles under her eyes. He gained weight, cheeks flushing pink.
She’d literally breathed her own life into him.
And now he sat before her—strong, healthy, *alive*—staring at her like she was empty space.
Annie’s gaze swept over their smug faces. Margaret’s triumphant smirk, already rehearsing her role as mother-of-the-groom. Andrew’s calm satisfaction—free of gratitude’s burden.
They expected tears. Hysteria. Accusations.
But there were no tears. Inside, everything had burned to ash, leaving only icy hollowness. And in that void, no vengeance stirred—just calculation.
Annie didn’t just stand. She straightened her shoulders, lifted her chin—and suddenly felt *taller* than them both.
*”Well, if that’s how it is…”* Her voice was calm, steady. *”Before we divorce, I’d like to give you a parting gift.”*
Andrew scoffed. Margaret rolled her eyes. Probably expecting some sentimental trinket.
Annie went to the bedroom and returned with a neat plastic folder. For a year, she’d collected receipts—proof of her love and his salvation.
She dropped it on the table. The plastic *click* echoed like a gunshot.
*”What’s this?”* he asked warily.
*”Open it.”*
He flipped it open. The first page—a private clinic bill for an eye-watering sum. Next, a loan agreement in her name. Then dozens more: medications, physio sessions, special diets, the hospital bed… All itemised, totalled.
His fingers trembled on the final figure, circled in red. A number that stole breath. His face paled.
*”I… don’t understand…”*
*”You understand perfectly, Andrew,”* Annie said coolly. *”You said you only needed me when you were weak. Well, if I was just hired help, it’s time to settle the bill.”*
She paused, letting it sink in.
*”Under the law, marital debts for joint needs are split fifty-fifty. Your recovery was a joint need. I’m filing for divorce—and demanding half.”*
Margaret snatched the folder like a predator. Her manicured nails scrabbled at pages, eyes darting over numbers. Her victorious smile melted into horror.
*”You—you wouldn’t dare!”* she shrieked.
*”Oh, I would,”* Annie said evenly. *”Consider it tuition for your son’s newfound clarity. Enjoy your fresh start.”*
The court case was exhausting. A farcical spectacle. Margaret wailed that Annie was a *”gold-digger exploiting a poor, sick boy!”* Andrew mumbled about *”voluntary contributions,”* eyes downcast. Relatives swore Annie had always been *”ungrateful.”*
But Annie stayed silent. The paperwork spoke for her. Receipts, bank statements, loan agreements. Paper doesn’t lie. And the judge—a weary woman—listened to it.
Annie won.
Their three-bedroom flat was split equally—but Andrew’s half of the debt nearly matched his share. The choice was simple: sell his portion and pay her, or sign it over entirely.
At the final hearing, their exhausted solicitor brokered a deal.
*”My client, Andrew Whitmore, transfers full ownership of his share in the marital home in lieu of debt repayment,”* he droned, barely hiding his irritation.
Annie glanced at her ex-husband. Hunched in the birthday suit *she’d* bought him—now hanging off him like a stranger’s clothes.
Beside him stood Margaret, dishevelled and grey-faced. Her dream of a *”glamorous new daughter-in-law”* had crumbled. Now Andrew wasn’t a catch—he was a debtor with ruined credit.
And homeless.
His new *”clever, gorgeous”* Jessica, learning of his debts and lost flat, ghosted him.
In the end, Andrew—the man who’d
