Fight For My Life

"Pancreatic cancer, aggressive," the doctor' s words hit me, Eleanor, a sixty-year-old retired librarian, like a physical blow.

I rushed home to my husband, Richard, a man I' d shared forty years with, hoping for comfort, for support, for a fight plan against this death sentence.

Instead, he coldly dismissed my $75,000 treatment as too expensive, citing our tight savings due to our grandson's school.

Days later, a bank statement revealed the truth: a $50,000 withdrawal for "Vintage Motors LLC" was not for our family, but for a shiny red convertible.

My best friend, Brenda, then called, reporting Richard and his high school sweetheart, Sylvia, recently widowed, cruising Main Street in that very car, laughing like young lovers.

He bought his mistress a luxury car, flaunted her publicly, and denied me life-saving treatment.