For four years, I worked three jobs to support my husband, Edward Godfrey, while he chased his PhD and battled ALS.

And somehow, in all that time, I'd never stepped foot on his campus.

Not because I didn't want to. Every time I brought it up, he had some excuse ready.

When graduation came, I asked to go to his hooding ceremony.

He shut it down fast.

"It's just a formality. A bunch of lab nerds. You'd be bored. Once I bring the diploma home, we'll have a candlelight dinner."

I didn't argue. Just helped him straighten his doctoral gown.

But I couldn't hide how excited I was.

So I dressed up.

And secretly followed him.

Onstage, Edward stood beside his wheelchair, voice thick with emotion.

"I want to thank my wife. She stood with me in the lab, even while pregnant, helping me grind out countless precious data points."

I froze.

My hand pressed against my flat stomach. Cold crept down my spine.

For four years, I'd busted myself raw to support his PhD. I went from the girl everyone on campus admired to a fish seller, reeking like seafood every day.

Worked so hard I miscarried twice.

So who exactly was this "wife" he was thanking?

The auditorium buzzed with voices. Congrats everywhere.

All I felt was cold.

Photos from Edward's life started flashing across the big screen.

In the lab, he sat in his wheelchair while a woman in a white dress leaned down and adjusted the microscope for him.

On the campus lawn, she pushed his chair while they looked up at the clouds, smiling like some perfect couple.

In the library, she rested against his shoulder while they read the same book. Sunlight poured over them like a cheesy romance poster.

In every photo, the woman looked perfect. Light makeup. Clean dresses. That soft, scholarly vibe.

And me?

Every day I stood in a seafood market, surrounded by rotting fish and greasy water. My hands rough. The smell stuck to me no matter how hard I scrubbed.

I didn't even have one photo with Edward.

Because he said he was sick and hated pictures.

Turns out he just hated taking them with me.

Now the woman stepped up beside him onstage and smoothed his doctoral gown like she'd done it a hundred times.

Edward lifted his hand and held hers.

The look he gave her—soft, warm, almost worshipful.

Yeah. I'd never gotten that look.

Students and professors below the stage started cheering, teasing the campus power couple.

Meanwhile, the actual wife who carried him for four straight years?

Standing in the crowd. Invisible.

For four years, I spun like a top just to cover Edward's "treatments" and PhD bills.

Before dawn, I was at the seafood market gutting fish.

Daytime, I washed dishes in a greasy restaurant kitchen.

At night, I ran a food stall.

The grind wrecked me.

And it cost me two unborn children.

When I miscarried, I didn't even have time to cry.

I kept telling myself things would get better once he graduated.

Instead, I got Edward's betrayal.

I couldn't watch that gut-twisting scene anymore. I bolted back to our tiny rental—barely three hundred square feet.

The shelves were crammed with his textbooks. Every single one wrapped by me.

Even his wheelchair—I'd searched the whole city to find the lightest, most comfortable model.

Every corner of that room carried proof of how much I loved him.

And every corner laughed at how stupid I'd been.

Maybe Edward was riding too high today. The desk drawer he always kept locked was sitting open.

He'd always claimed it held important research and never let me touch it.

I didn't care anymore. I yanked it open.

No research inside.

Just a diary.

Sitting there like it had been waiting for me.

My hands shook as I opened it.

The words sliced straight through me.

[February 5. The greatest luck of my life was meeting Margot. Not like Linsay, who reeks of fish and only knows how to gut them.]

[March 10. Margot's morning sickness was bad today. She couldn't stomach the fish soup Linsay made. Pregnancy is really hard.]

[April 2. The research stipend came in today. Didn't tell Linsay. Bought Margot some prenatal vitamins.]

[My beloved Margot.]

So. The woman had a name.

Margot Danby. The "poor student" he mentioned all the time.

A stack of receipts slipped out of the diary.

Each one hit harder than the last.

Baby supplies—$5,000.

Postnatal retreat reservation—$8,000.

Luxury downtown apartment, down payment—$100,000.

I bit my lip until I tasted blood.

The date he paid that apartment down payment—

Was the exact day of my second miscarriage.

That day, he told me he'd just renewed a year of rehab fees and couldn't afford the hospital for a painless procedure. Ordered abortion pills online instead.

He even blamed himself. Promised that once he graduated, he'd make it up to me. Give me a good life.

Guess he did get a good life.

It just didn't include me.

***

The more I thought about it, the angrier I got.

I skipped meals. Wore the same old clothes. Gave him the best of everything.

And he couldn't stand the smell of fish on me. Acted like my sacrifices were nothing.

The money I earned before sunrise and after midnight?

He used it to build a cozy little life with another woman.

Four years.

I'd been raising a monster.

And I wasn't about to let it end like this.

I crouched down, gathered every receipt, and kept them.

Evidence.

When Edward got home, he was practically glowing.

He held up a cheap cake box. "Bakery had a sale. Got you a cake to celebrate."

I took it without a word.

Maybe guilt made him chatty.

"The hooding ceremony was boring as hell. The president wouldn't shut up. Almost fell asleep. Good thing you didn't come—you would've hated it."

My eyes dropped to the price tag.

$19.90.

"I heard family of outstanding grads get invited onstage. That true?"

Edward's smile stiffened.

His eyes flickered, then he waved it off. "Don't listen to rumors. It's academic politics. Complicated. No point stressing over it. You wouldn't get it anyway."

That one stung.

The cake box almost crumpled in my grip.

His phone rang.

"Just a buddy calling to say congrats," he muttered, already rushing outside.

I watched him walk away.

Steady. Easy. Agile.

So much for the helpless patient.

I followed.

His voice dropped soft. Gentle.

"Margot, don't cry. Of course I love you. Once I lock in the faculty position tomorrow, I'll divorce her. I'll give you and the baby a real family."

So that was the plan.

The second his golden future started—

I was trash.

My hands shook as I recorded every word.

Then I slid down the wall and sobbed.

I refused to accept it.

That night, after Edward fell asleep, I picked up his phone for the first time.

The pinned chat had no profile picture.

Contact name: Starry.

The chat window was empty.

I opened the timeline.

The latest post was from this afternoon.

[Happy graduation, my doctorate hubby.]

The photo showed Edward holding his diploma, arm around Margot onstage.

My vision blurred as I kept scrolling.

Yesterday:

[Better dress up. The doctor's wife has to attend the hooding ceremony!]

Margot in a white dress, up on her toes, kissing him.

Last week:

[Our little miracle.]

A sonogram.

Twenty-four weeks pregnant.

I couldn't look anymore. I lifted the phone, ready to smash it against Edward's head.

Another notification popped up.

Margot had posted again.

[Our new home is ready—double celebrations!]

[Tomorrow's Edward's job celebration and our housewarming. Friends, come join us!]

[10:00 AM, Summit Heights Residence Unit 1006. Our little family of three will be waiting!]

The photo showed them kissing in a bright, spacious apartment.

Something inside me snapped.

I worked myself past exhaustion. Lost two children.

Meanwhile, Edward and Margot were celebrating a new life.

He used my blood and sweat to buy her an apartment. Planned to toast it in style.

And me?

Just their long-term ATM. Run into the ground and tossed aside.

My hands shook as I screenshotted every post on Margot's timeline.

Edward, if you can be this heartless, don't blame me for getting ruthless.

You used my money to buy that apartment. To throw that party.

How could I not show up?

That night, I didn't sleep.

All I could hear was the memory of his steps. Steady. Quick. Effortless.

For someone who'd supposedly had ALS for four years?

How was he walking like that?

The question squeezed my chest until I could barely breathe.

***

At dawn, while he was still asleep, I grabbed our marriage certificate and called a cab to the rehab center where he'd been "treated" for four years.

First time I'd ever been there.

Every time I offered to go with him, he shut it down.

"The rehab's ugly. I don't want you seeing me like that. You work so hard—just rest when you can. Don't worry about me."

I believed him.

Was even touched.

So I kept making him healthy homemade soup.

And lived on crackers and water.

The rehab center wasn't big.

The front desk nurse remembered him right away.

"Oh, I remember him. Very inspiring patient. He was discharged two years ago—fully recovered."

Fully recovered.

My fingers dug into the marriage certificate. My knees almost gave out.

Seeing my face go white, she hurried to call his attending doctor.

My head was spinning. Eyes burning, I forced the words out.

"Dr. Weldon, I'm Edward Godfrey's wife. I need to ask about his condition."

Dr. Weldon led me into his office. Quiet. Hesitant.

The dread in my chest got heavier with every step.

My voice came out rough. "Dr. Weldon, please. Just tell me. I can handle it."

He set a medical file on the desk. "Mrs. Godfrey, this has weighed on me. Your husband never had ALS. Four years ago, it was a misdiagnosis. The final diagnosis was nerve damage.

"The hospital gave him a fifty-thousand-dollar settlement and free rehab. He fully recovered two years ago."

The words hit like a bomb.

Fully recovered?

Then why was I paying massive "treatment fees" every month for four years?

Why was he still in a wheelchair?

Why was he coming here every week?

Dr. Weldon lowered his voice, anger slipping through. "He said he needed a reason to keep 'recuperating' so he could finish his PhD smoothly.

"When he came in each week, he mostly just talked with me.

"The hospital didn't want the misdiagnosis getting out, so as part of the settlement, they kept it confidential."

Dr. Weldon slid the file toward me. "I heard you've had a hard few years taking care of him. You should have this."

I stared at the stack of records.

Right then, I wanted to tear Edward apart.

Two years ago, he told me his recovery had hit a "critical stage." Said he needed imported medication—ten thousand dollars a course.

I didn't hesitate.

I sold the house my grandmother left me just to pay for three rounds.

When I gave him the money, he held me and cried.

"Linsay, when I'm better, I'll make you the happiest woman in the world."

Yeah.

Turns out the only thing he cured was his bank account.

Every dollar went to Margot.