Yet every few months, he reported another frightening complication that supposedly required additional specialists, private treatments, expensive equipment, or urgent financial assistance.
Whenever I questioned an invoice, he accused me of caring more about money than his health.
Whenever I suggested asking the hospital directly, he insisted the treatment was private and that questioning his doctors would only make his condition worse.
I had believed him because the alternative seemed unbearable.
I remembered selling my grandmother’s diamond bracelet, a piece she had worn on her wedding day.
I remembered refinancing our house after Mark told me that delaying an important treatment could cost him his future.
I remembered working late into the night while he rested at home, supposedly too weak to manage his struggling equipment business.
Some months, I survived on inexpensive groceries while sending thousands of dollars toward bills I never fully understood.
My husband had watched every sacrifice without once asking me to stop.
