Cancer was supposed to be our enemy. Turns out, my husband was the real threat all along.
When doctors gave Jason weeks to live, I prepared to say goodbye to fifteen years of marriage. Then a mysterious nurse sat beside me on my darkest day and planted an impossible seed of doubt: “He’s not dying. Set up a camera.”
For $49.99 and a lifetime of guilt, I bought a spy camera disguised as a USB charger. Watching the footage that night, I discovered two shocking truths:
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My terminally ill husband could do jumping jacks
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He’d been passionately kissing his accomplice Lena for months
Their recorded conversations revealed a brutal scheme – fake medical reports, an offshore account, plans to declare him dead and vanish with the insurance money while I planned his funeral.
The next morning, watching Jason dramatically gasp for water between “painful” winces, I realized: I’d married an Oscar-worthy actor.
My revenge was simple. I invited everyone who loved him to witness his “final moments” – then played the footage on the hospital room TV. The fallout was spectacular. His mother slapped him so hard his heart monitor flatlined for real.
As police led Jason away, the nurse who warned me reappeared. “I’ve seen too many good people destroyed by bad ones,” she said. Her kindness hurt more than Jason’s betrayal – proof that sometimes angels wear scrubs instead of wings.
