“What paperwork?”
“The trust release. Joint accounts. Just practical things.” He looked down at the blanket. “If I leave you with a legal mess, I’ll never forgive myself.”
I stared at him.
All I could think about was how this fitted into his terminal diagnosis act.
And whether this had anything to do with the papers I HADN’T seen in that folder.
“Just practical things.”
“You don’t have to think about that today,” I said.
“I do.” His voice became strangely urgent. “I need everything signed tomorrow.”
“So soon?”
“I don’t know how much longer I’ll be thinking clearly.”
I searched his face.
For the first time in twenty years, I wasn’t looking at the boy who carried my backpack.
“I need everything signed tomorrow.”
I was looking at a man who needed my signature more than he needed my love.
“I’ll bring everything tomorrow,” I whispered.
His shoulders relaxed.
“Thank you.”
***
That evening the hospital administrator called me.
“We found something.”
A man who needed my signature
My stomach tightened.
“What?”
“We ran a financial disclosure after opening the investigation.”
“And?”
“Your husband is carrying debts well into six figures.”
I closed my eyes.
My stomach tightened.
“Gambling?”
“We don’t know. Loans. Credit. Judgments. But one thing is clear.”
“What?”
“He wasn’t trying to marry you because he was dying.”
Silence settled between us.
“He was trying to use you. I’d double check your bank accounts and any money he can access as your husband.”
“He was trying to use you.”
I walked into Ben’s hospital room the next morning holding a folder of papers, just like he’d asked.
But I wasn’t alone.
The hospital administrator stepped in behind me.
Two attorneys and a quiet officer from the state medical board followed her.
Ben’s face went pale.
But I wasn’t alone.
“Sweetheart, what is this?”
I set the folder on his tray table and slid it toward him.
“Open it.”
He didn’t move.
So I opened it myself.
Photos of his lab results.
“Sweetheart, what is this?”
“You want to explain any of this, Ben? Or should I?”
