The hospital waiting room chairs had become my second home when the nurse sat beside me. Her words sliced through my grief like a scalpel: “Your husband isn’t dying. Set up a camera.” At first, I thought grief had broken my mind. But three sleepless nights later, I watched the footage that unraveled my marriage.
There was Eric – my “terminal” husband – laughing with a woman in leather, reviewing documents, moving without pain. The man who’d squeezed my hand weakly that morning now stood tall, embracing his accomplice. Their plan? Fake his death, steal the insurance money, and disappear.
I invited everyone who loved Eric to his “final goodbye.” As the room filled with tears, I played their damning conversation about bribing doctors and laundering money. The police took him away in handcuffs while his mistress hyperventilated by the elevators.
That nurse saved me from more than heartbreak – she saved me from financial ruin. Sometimes angels wear scrubs instead of wings.