I wiped his brow, changed his bandages, and drained my savings to build him a handicap-accessible life. I thought we were rebuilding our marriage. In reality, I was just prepping him for his mistress.
When the police knocked on my door at 2:00 AM, my first thought was terror. My husband, Mark, had been in a catastrophic car accident. He had swerved off the highway and wrapped our SUV around a tree.
He survived, barely. He had two broken legs, a shattered pelvis, and spinal compression. In the ICU, he cried. He told me he was sorry for the affair he’d had two years ago. He told me God had spared him so he could be the husband I deserved. He swore that the accident happened because he was rushing home to be with me.
I believed him. I forgave him. And for the next six months, I became his nurse, his servant, and his financial safety net.
The Sacrifice
I took a leave of absence from work. I spent my days driving him to physical therapy and my nights changing his catheters and managing his pain meds. I drained my $45,000 life savings to renovate our downstairs. I widened the doorways for his wheelchair, installed a ramp, and remodeled the bathroom.
I was exhausted, but I was happy. We were bonding. Or so I thought.
Throughout his recovery, Mark was constantly on his phone. “Who are you texting?” I asked one afternoon while massaging the atrophy in his calves. “Insurance adjuster,” he grunted. “Her name is Elena. We’re fighting for the settlement money. It’s a nightmare.”
I felt bad for him. I brought him tea and let him text “Elena” for hours, thinking he was securing our financial future.
The Discovery
Two days before his discharge from outpatient rehab, Mark asked me to grab his iPad from his bag to update his playlist. He had forgotten to disconnect his iMessage.
A text popped up at the top of the screen. Elena: “I can’t wait until she drops you off. I missed you last night. Did she suspect anything?”
My stomach dropped. I scrolled up. There were hundreds of messages. They weren’t discussing insurance. They were sexting. They were planning their future. And then I found the date of the accident. Mark (6 months ago): “Leaving now. I’ll be at your place in 20. Wearing that blue shirt you like.”
He wasn’t rushing home to me when he crashed. He was driving to her. The accident that ruined our finances and stole six months of my life happened because he was speeding to a hookup. And “Elena”? She wasn’t an adjuster. She was the mistress. She had been visiting him in the hospital whenever I went to get food.
The Financial Pivot
I didn’t scream. I didn’t confront him. I walked out of the room and called the hospital billing department.
“Hi, this is Mark’s wife. I need to update the billing information. We are separating our finances effective immediately. Please ensure all future billing goes to his personal address and phone number. Also, I am removing myself as the guarantor on his file.”
Because I hadn’t signed the final financial responsibility papers for the rehab center yet (I was supposed to do it at discharge), I simply… didn’t sign them. Then, I called the bank. I took half of what was left in the joint account (which wasn’t much, thanks to the renovations I paid for) and opened a new account in my name only.
The Discharge Day
The next morning, I arrived at the rehab center. Mark was dressed, sitting in his wheelchair, smiling. “Ready to go home, babe?” he asked. “I can’t wait to see the new bathroom.”
“I bet,” I said. “Here’s your bag.”
I wheeled him out to the curb. It was a beautiful, sunny day. “Where’s the car?” he asked.
“I didn’t bring it,” I said. “I took an Uber.” “What? How am I supposed to get home?”
I handed him a large manila envelope. “That’s a question for Elena,” I said. “I called her. She knows you’re here. Since you were driving to her house the night you crashed, I figure she can handle the recovery from here.”
“Sarah, wait—” his face went white.
“Inside this envelope,” I continued, “are the divorce papers. And the bill from the rehab center. It’s about $150,000. Since I didn’t sign as the guarantor, and the house is in my name… good luck.”
The Aftermath
I turned around and got into the waiting Uber. As we drove away, I saw him frantically typing on his phone—probably begging Elena to come pick up what was left of him.
I lost my savings on the renovations, which hurts. But I kept the house. The renovations actually increased its value, so I’ll make that money back when I sell it. Mark is currently living in a studio apartment with Elena. I hear things are tense; apparently, she didn’t sign up to be a full-time nurse to a man with massive debt and bad credit.
I learned a valuable lesson: You can heal a broken bone, but you can’t fix a broken moral compass.
