My Wife Told The Doctors: “Stop His Treatment. He Can’t Afford This Surgery Anyway”…

 

My wife told the doctors, “Stop his treatment. He can’t afford this surgery anyway.” I stared at her, and for a split second, my brain struggled to process the betrayal. And then I said the words I didn’t mean: “You’re right.” She grabbed the pen to sign the release, her fingers trembling just slightly, but before they could hit the paper, the hospital’s chief of surgery strode into the room like a storm breaking, ripped the paper from her hands, and glared at her with a fury I had never seen in a human face. “He doesn’t need insurance. He’s my son. Get out of my hospital.”

It’s strange, the way your mind works in moments like that. It loops through a lifetime of memories, regrets, and suppressed truths in a heartbeat. To understand why that confrontation was so surreal, I suppose I should go back to the moment it all started, though the aneurysm itself was hardly the most important detail. It was a Wednesday, around 2 a.m., and I had been asleep, dreaming—though of what, I cannot say. Then, in an instant, the dream shattered. Pain so intense, so sharp, that it felt like my skull was being split open from the inside out. I convulsed, fell out of bed, and Sarah woke to the sound of my body hitting the floor. Her scream, shrill and panicked, cut through the haze of my agony. 911 was called. Lights, sirens, EMTs—it was all a blur.

By the time we arrived at St. Mary’s Medical Center, I barely understood the world around me. The hospital was the best in the state for neurosurgery, the most expensive, and also the one where my father had once held the position of chief of surgery. I hadn’t spoken to him in eight years, but that revelation would become critical later. The ER doctor explained the situation to Sarah while I lay on the gurney, half-conscious and unable to form words: a ruptured cerebral aneurysm. Immediate surgery was the only chance I had, and without it, death would come before morning. With it, I might survive, but only if operated on within the next two hours, and even then, the odds were far from certain.

Then came the question that should have been my first alarm: How much? Not, will he be okay, not, what are his chances, just, how much? The doctor hesitated, shifted uneasily. Without insurance, the cost of the surgery alone would be $150,000, and that didn’t include the post-op care or the hospital stay, which pushed the total to nearly $300,000. I could feel Sarah’s sharp intake of breath even as pain lanced through my skull. Our finances were precarious, but not because of me. I worked as a freelance software developer, earning roughly $85,000 a year, and six months prior, I had switched to a high-deductible plan on Sarah’s suggestion, a move she framed as “saving for the future.” Fifteen thousand dollars in deductibles loomed like a wall between life and death.

Sarah’s words cut through the fog of pain as if they were sharpened knives: “We can’t afford that. Not even close.” I tried to interject, mentioning our emergency fund and health savings account, but the words barely formed. The young doctor cleared his throat, eyes hardening. “We need to operate now. Payment plans later. Your husband’s life is on the line.” The room grew heavy. My pain didn’t allow for clear thought, yet her next move stunned me beyond comprehension.

A younger doctor entered, carrying consent forms. He explained in clinical, measured tones the risks: stroke, paralysis, death, certain death without surgery. I tried to nod, tried to acknowledge him, but my skull felt like it was splitting with every motion. Sarah stepped forward, interrupting the doctor’s explanation. “He can’t afford this surgery. Stop his treatment.” Her voice carried conviction, but it was the kind of conviction that comes from a place of relief rather than care. “We can’t afford it,” she repeated. The monitors beeped insistently. The silence that followed was thick and suffocating.

I looked at the young doctor. He glanced at me, searching for some sign of resistance, some glimmer of my will to survive. Instead, my mind, fogged by pain and betrayal, allowed me to say the words I didn’t intend. “She’s right,” I whispered. “Don’t do the surgery.” Sarah’s head snapped toward me. “What?” Her voice cracked, a mixture of disbelief and anticipation. The doctor’s expression flickered between horror and confusion. Essentially, I had chosen death over debt.

Sarah moved closer, grasping my hand as if she were offering comfort. Her eyes glistened, but the warmth was absent. I looked at her and saw not sorrow, not fear, but something I had never anticipated: relief. Relief that she no longer had to worry about the expense, relief that she could take control of the situation, relief that the burden of my life—and my body—was now fully hers to decide upon. She scanned the form, moving faster than the situation warranted, as if she were afraid someone might intervene. Her hand shook slightly as she hovered over the signature line, and I knew, in that moment, exactly what she wanted.

All around us, the room felt charged with tension. Machines beeped, lights flickered slightly off the sterile walls, and yet everything seemed to slow down, crystallize. Every heartbeat was a countdown. Every breath was a silent question. I understood that she wanted me gone, and she had orchestrated this with the precision of someone who had rehearsed the scenario in her mind a thousand times.

And then, the chief of surgery appeared, breaking the spell. He tore the paper from her fingers, his eyes locking on hers with a ferocity that made the room itself seem to hold its breath. “He doesn’t need insurance,” he barked. “He’s my son. Get out of my hospital.” In that instant, I realized just how many layers of deception, betrayal, and hidden truths could exist within a single room. My pain, my fear, and my near-death experience collided with decades of unresolved family conflict. The chief’s intervention wasn’t just a lifeline—it was a revelation.

I had been lying on the precipice of death, poised between the world and nothingness, and yet, in that moment, I saw the entire landscape of my life stretch before me: the years of marriage, the quiet sacrifices, the choices I had made to secure our future, and the betrayal that now stood in flesh and blood before me. Sarah’s relief, my father’s unexpected defense, the young doctor’s shock—it all combined into a tableau that was impossible to look away from, impossible to ignore. And somewhere beneath the pain, beneath the fear, a cold, clear thought formed: I needed to remember every detail, every expression, every second of this night, because the consequences were only just beginning to unfold.

I lay there, my head pounding, my vision dimming at the edges, aware that the next few hours could determine not just my survival, but the unraveling of everything I had believed about the people closest to me. The betrayal, the malice, the unexpected loyalty—they were all tangled together, waiting for a moment to resolve, and I knew with a sinking certainty that the night had only just begun. My eyes, half-closed, tracked Sarah’s movements, the trembling pen, the hesitant doctor, and the decisive father. In the quiet hum of the hospital room, punctuated by my own shallow breaths, I understood that what came next would be a test not only of my life, but of the truths I had buried, the secrets that had festered, and the decisions that would define all that remained.

The room held its breath with me, and in that stillness, I knew—though I could not see it yet—that the night would change everything. And then I saw her face, the calculated calm that belied her relief, and I realized, fully, that I was witnessing a side of my wife I had never seen before. A side that might very well decide whether I lived or died.

I focused on her, on the pen, on the life-or-death weight of this single moment, aware that the seconds stretched into an eternity. And somewhere, deep inside, I understood that this was only the beginning.

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My wife told the doctors, “Stop his treatment. He can’t afford this surgery anyway.” I replied, “You’re right.” She grabbed the pen to sign the release, only to see the hospital’s chief of surgery walk in and rip the paper from her hands. He looked at her and said, “He doesn’t need insurance. He’s my son. Get out of my hospital.

” I should probably start with how I ended up needing emergency surgery at St. Mary’s Medical Center at 2:00 a.m. on a Wednesday, but honestly, that part’s not as important as what happened after. The aneurysm in my brain decided to rupture while I was sleeping. One second, I’m dreaming about something I can’t remember.

 Next second, I’m screaming in pain so intense I thought my skull was splitting open. Sarah, my wife of 6 years, she woke up when I fell out of bed. Found me on the floor convulsing. Called 911. I remember that part in flashes. The ambulance, the lights, the EMTs asking me questions I couldn’t answer because my brain felt like it was on fire. St.

 Mary’s is where they took me. The best neurosurgery program in the state. Also, the most expensive. Also, and I didn’t know this until later, where my father worked as chief of surgery. I hadn’t spoken to my father in 8 years, but I’m getting ahead of myself. The ER doctor explained it to Sarah while I was barely conscious on the gurnie. ruptured cerebral aneurysm.

Needed immediate surgery. Without it, I’d be dead by morning. With it, I had maybe a 70% chance if they operated in the next 2 hours. How much? Sarah asked. That should have been my first clue. Not will he be okay or what are his chances? Just how much? The doctor looked uncomfortable.

 Without insurance, the surgery alone is around $150,000. I see you stay recovery follow-up care. You’re looking at close to $300,000 total. I heard Sarah’s sharp intake of breath even through the pain. See, here’s the thing about my insurance situation. I’m a freelance software developer. Make decent money around $85,000 a year, but I’d switched to a high deductible plan 6 months ago to save on premiums, $15,000 deductible.

Sarah had been the one who suggested it. said we needed to cut costs. I’d agreed because we were supposedly saving for a house. We don’t have that kind of money, Sarah said to the doctor. We have the health savings account, I managed to say through gritted teeth and the emergency fund. That’s not enough. Not even close.

The doctor cleared his throat. We need to operate now. We can work out payment plans later. Your husband’s life. I need to think about this. The doctor’s expression changed. Hardened. Ma’am, your husband will die without the surgery tonight. I understand that, but we have a daughter. We have a mortgage. I can’t bankrupt our family.

 We didn’t have a daughter. We’ve been trying for years. No luck. I was too out of it to process that lie right then. The pain was too intense. They moved me to a preop room. Gave me something for the pain that barely touched it. Sarah stood in the corner making phone calls. I heard her talking to someone. Couldn’t make out the words.

 A different doctor came in younger. He had forms. Mr. Richardson, I need to go over consent forms with you. The surgery carries significant risks. There’s a chance of stroke, paralysis, death, but without surgery, the outcome is certain. You’ll die, probably within hours. I tried to nod, couldn’t move my head without agony shooting through my skull.

 Sarah stepped forward. He can’t afford this surgery. We can’t afford it. Mrs. Richardson, we have financial assistance programs. Stop his treatment. The room went silent except for the beeping monitors. I’m sorry, the doctor said. He can’t afford this surgery anyway. Just make him comfortable. We’ll sign a DNR. The doctor looked at me.

 I looked back and in that moment in that hospital room with my brain literally bleeding, I made a decision. She’s right, I said. Sarah’s head whipped toward me. What? You’re right. Can’t afford it. Don’t do the surgery. The young doctor looked between us, clearly uncomfortable. Mr. Richardson, you’re essentially choosing death over debt. Guess so.

 Sarah moved to my bedside, grabbed my hand. Her eyes were shining with tears. Baby, I’m so sorry. I wish there was another way. I looked at her. Really? Looked at her and I saw it. Relief. She was relieved. Where’s the form? She asked the doctor. He reluctantly pulled out a paper. Treatment refusal form.

 Sarah took the pen, started reading through it quickly. Too quickly, like she couldn’t wait to sign it. Her hand was shaking slightly as she found the signature line. Put pen to paper. I closed my eyes. Not from pain this time, from understanding. She wanted me dead. I didn’t know why yet, but I knew it with absolute certainty.

My wife of 6 years wanted me to die in that hospital. The door burst open. I opened my eyes. A man in a white coat walked in. older, maybe late 50s, gray hair, sharp eyes. He saw Sarah with pen touching the signature line, looked at me, his face changed completely. “What the hell is going on in here?” he demanded, crossing the room in three strides.

 The young doctor straightened up. “Dr. Richardson, I wasn’t aware you were on call tonight.” “Dr. Richardson, my father’s name.” Sarah looked up, startled. “Who are you?” My father ripped the paper from her hands. She dropped the pen in shock. “I’m the chief of surgery at this hospital, and I’m asking why my patient is signing a treatment refusal form for a ruptured cerebral aneurysm.

” “Your patient can’t afford the surgery,” Sarah said. Her voice had an edge. “Now oure declining treatment.” “My father walked over to her, took the form from her hands, looked at my name on it.” His face went white. “Marcus,” he said quietly. I hadn’t heard my father say my name in 8 years. “Hey, Dad.” The young doctor’s eyes went wide. Wait, this is your ut.

My father said not to me, to the doctor. To Sarah. Everyone out now. I’m his wife, Sarah protested. You can’t. My father rounded on her and I saw something I’d never seen before. Fury, pure controlled fury. He doesn’t need insurance. He’s my son. Get out of my hospital. Sarah stood there stunned. Now, my father said, his voice was still.

 The young doctor left immediately. Sarah stayed frozen. Mrs. Richardson,” my father said, his voice dropping to something cold and dangerous. “Leave this room, leave this floor, and don’t come back. Security will escort you out if necessary. You can’t do this. I’m his wife. I have medical power of attorney.” Not anymore. Marcus is conscious and making his own decisions.

 And as chief of surgery, I’m making a medical determination that your presence is detrimental to my patients mental well-being and recovery. Leave. Sarah looked at me. I looked back and said, “Nothing.” She left. The door closed. My father stood there for a moment. Then he moved to my bedside. I didn’t know you were in the city, he said quietly. Been here 3 years.

 You didn’t call. You didn’t either. He nodded, pulled up a chair, sat down heavily. I’m going to fix this. He said the aneurysm. I’m doing the surgery myself. Dad, you don’t have to. Yes, I do. Because you’re my son and because I’ve already lost 8 years. I’m not losing you permanently. The pain in my head was still there, but something else hurt now, too. Something in my chest.

I’m sorry, I said, for leaving, for not calling, for we’ll talk about all of that after I save your life. Deal. Deal. He stood up, started for the door, paused. Marcus. Yeah, your wife. Something’s wrong there. The way she talked about the money, the way she wanted you to refuse treatment, that wasn’t normal spousal concern.

 That was something else. I know. We’ll deal with that, too. After he left to prep for surgery, I found out later what happened while I was under. My father assembled his best surgical team. The surgery took 6 hours. At one point, my blood pressure dropped so low they almost lost me. My father refused to give up, kept working, brought me back. I woke up 2 days later in ICU.

 My father was sitting in a chair next to my bed, hadn’t shaved, looked exhausted. His shirt was wrinkled. the same one he’d been wearing when he walked into that preop room. “Hey,” I croked. His head snapped up. Relief flooded his face so completely that for a second he looked like he might cry.

 I’d never seen my father cry, not even at mom’s funeral, which I’d only heard about weeks later through a mutual acquaintance. “Hey, yourself. Welcome back. Did you sleep here?” Mostly, when I wasn’t checking your vitals every 20 minutes and driving the nurses crazy, they tried to kick me out. I reminded them I’m the chief of surgery.

 A small smile has its perks. I tried to smile back. My head hurt, but it was different. Surgical pain, recovery pain, not dying pain. Thank you for everything. The surgery, staying, all of it. You’re my son. I’d do it again in a heartbeat. Even if you are stubborn as hell and didn’t call me for 8 years. The 8 years sat heavy between us.

 All the miss birthdays, holidays, conversations, life. About that, he said, but his voice was gentle. First, you need to know something about Sarah, I tensed. The monitors must have picked it up because he glanced at them, then back at me. Nothing to spike your blood pressure over yet. She hasn’t been to see you, not once in 2 days.

 She called once to ask about your status. I told her you were stable. She said okay and hung up. Didn’t ask to talk to you. didn’t ask when visiting hours were just okay and hung up. That hurt worse than the incision in my skull. Two days. I’d been unconscious for two days and my wife couldn’t be bothered to visit to sit by my bed like my father, who I hadn’t spoken to in 8 years, had done.

There’s more. My father continued carefully, watching my face. Security flagged something. She tried to access your medical records remotely. tried to find out if you’d updated your life insurance beneficiary information. The hospital system logged the attempt. She used your login credentials from some old hospital visit.

 We denied access, obviously. But Marcus, why would she be checking your life insurance while you were in ICU recovering from brain surgery? I knew why. In the fog of pain and medication, I knew exactly why. I have a policy through my professional association, $500,000. She’s the beneficiary. We set it up when we got married. My father’s jaw tightened.

 She wanted you to die. Yeah. Yeah. I figured that out when she tried to get me to refuse treatment. We need to prove it. Hell. Leave that to me. You focus on getting better. I’m going to focus on making sure your wife faces consequences. Over the next week, while I recovered in the hospital, my father did two things.

 First, he made sure I got the absolute best care possible. came in every morning, checked my progress, adjusted medications, consulted with the neurology team. He was my doctor, but more than that, he was my father. And for the first time in 8 years, I felt like I had family again. Second, he hired a private investigator. The investigator’s report came back on day nine of my hospital stay.

 My father brought it to me in person. You need to be sitting down for this. I’m in a hospital bed. I’m already down. Smart ass. just like your mother. He handed me the folder. I opened it. Sarah had been having an affair for 18 months with my business partner Derek. They’d been planning this for 6 months, waiting for the right moment.

 The moment came when I switched to the high deductible insurance plan, a switch Sarah had suggested and I’d stupidly agreed to. The plan was simple. Wait for a medical emergency. Any medical emergency. Convince me to refuse treatment. I die. She gets the life insurance. She and Dererick split the money and start a new life together.

 The PI had emails, text messages, photos of them together at hotels, plans they’d made, houses they’d looked at, even a conversation about what they’d do with the money. I read it all. Didn’t say anything for a long time. Marcus, my father said gently. I need you to do something for me. Anything. Don’t tell her I’m going to be okay.

 Don’t tell her the surgery was successful. Let her think. Let her think I’m still critical. That I might not make it. My father’s eyes sharpened. What are you thinking? I’m thinking she needs to believe she almost got away with it right up until the moment she realizes she didn’t. I like the way you think. What else? Can you get me a lawyer? A really good one. I know several.

 The lawyer’s name was Patricia Chen. She was expensive, ruthless, and brilliant. My father paid her retainer before I could argue. Consider it 8 years of missed birthday presents. He said Patricia heard my story. Read the investigator’s report. Her expression never changed. We can do attempted murder, medical neglect, fraud regarding the life insurance, possibly conspiracy with Derek if we can prove he knew about the plan.

 I don’t want her in jail. Patricia raised an eyebrow. You want to go easier on her? No. I want to destroy her financially and socially. make her wish she’d gone to jail instead. Now you’re speaking my language. Here’s what we did. First, I recovered. Three weeks in the hospital total. My father discharged me to a rehabilitation center where I did physical therapy.

 Needed to regain full motor control. The surgery had been a success, but recovery was slow. During this time, Sarah called once a week, asked how I was doing. I kept my answers brief, hanging in there, still recovering. Never gave her details. My father when she called the hospital would give vague updates. He’s stable. We’re monitoring him closely.

 Let her believe I was still in danger. Meanwhile, Patricia was working. She filed for divorce on my behalf. Had Sarah served at work in front of Derek. That was intentional. She also filed a civil suit against Sarah for attempted fraud and financial damages. That got Sarah’s lawyer involved immediately. Then came the depositions.

 Patricia deposed Sarah, asked her very specific questions about that night in the hospital, about her phone calls, about her relationship with Derek. Sarah lied under oath, said she’d been trying to protect our financial future, said she’d never wanted me to die, said she’d been making the tough choices because I wasn’t capable.

 Patricia let her talk, let her commit to her lies. Then Patricia introduced the evidence, the PI report, the emails, the text messages, the photos. Sarah’s lawyer went pale. Patricia asked one more question. Mrs. Richardson, do you still maintain you were acting in your husband’s best interests when you attempted to deny him life-saving medical treatment? Sarah couldn’t answer.

 The divorce went through in 4 months. I got the house. She got nothing. The prenup we’d signed, at her insistence, ironically, protected my business assets since she’d committed adultery proven by the PI report she wasn’t entitled to alimony. The civil suit settled. Sarah agreed to pay $50,000 in damages, sign away any rights to my life insurance, and accept full responsibility for her actions in a written statement.

 But here’s the thing about going nuclear. You don’t stop at legal victories. Derek was my business partner. We ran a software development firm together, equal partners. The company was worth about $800,000. I bought him out, used the settlement money from Sarah, plus a loan from my father to make him an offer. He could sell me his half for $250,000 and walk away clean.

 Or I could file a lawsuit alleging he was complicit in Sarah’s fraud, which would tie the company up in litigation for years and destroy its reputation. Derek took the money. Then I renamed the company, sent out notices to all our clients. The ones who knew Derek got a personal call from me explaining why he was no longer with the firm.

 I was professional about it, just stated facts. He’d been having an affair with my wife, had been involved in personal matters that made continued partnership impossible. Word spread. In our industry, reputation is everything. Derek’s was ruined. Sarah tried to get a job. Every place she applied, I had connections.

 Made sure the hiring managers knew about the affair, about her trying to deny me medical treatment. I never said, “Don’t hire her.” I just made sure people knew who they’d be hiring. She ended up moving two states away, but the nuclear part, the part I’m most proud of. Sarah had been posting on social media during my entire hospital stay. Sympathy posts.

 Praying for my husband. Please send good thoughts. playing the worried wife while texting Derek about how soon she’d have the life insurance money once the divorce was final. I posted screenshots, all of it. The texts with Derek, the emails planning what they’d do with the insurance money, her trying to get me to refuse treatment, all timestamped with her praying for my husband posts right above them.

 Captioned it, “Meet my ex-wife who tried to let me die for insurance money while pretending to pray for my recovery. I posted it at 9:00 a.m. on a Monday. By noon, it had 50,000 shares. By 5:00 p.m., it was trending. By the next morning, it had been picked up by news outlets. Local news, then national.

 Someone made it into a Tik Tok that got 3 million views. YouTube commentary channels covered it. Reddit had multiple threads. Sarah’s full name was in the post. Her face was in the screenshots. There was no hiding from it. Her employer, a marketing firm in the city, fired her by Wednesday. They released a statement saying they don’t employ individuals whose actions reflect poorly on company values.

 She tried to claim wrongful termination. Her lawyer told her to drop it. The publicity would only make things worse. Her friends, the ones who’d been in her prayer circle posting supportive comments during my hospital stay, they all deleted their comments, blocked her. A few of them reached out to me to apologize for not seeing through her act.

 Her family called me, her mother crying, asking me to take down the post, saying I was destroying her daughter’s life. I reminded her that her daughter had tried to let me die. Her mother hung up on me. The post stayed up. News crews showed up at Sarah’s apartment. She stopped answering the door, stopped going outside. Eventually, she just left.

Moved in the middle of the night. I found out later she’d gone to Arizona, changed jobs, changed her name legally, but the internet is forever. People still recognized her, still commented on her social media profiles. She deleted everything eventually. Good. That was 6 months ago. I’m fully recovered now.

 No lasting damage from the surgery. My father says it’s a miracle. I think it’s just good surgical skills. He says I’m a smartass. I say I learned from the best. My father and I have dinner every Sunday now. Sometimes at his place, sometimes at mine. We talk about everything. Work, life.

 Mom, she passed away while we were estranged. And that’s a wound that’ll never fully heal. Brain cancer. She went from diagnosis to gone in 4 months. I found out 3 weeks after her funeral. One of her friends from church tracked me down. Thought I should know. I’d driven to the cemetery alone, stood at her grave, cried for the first time in years.

 My father and I never talked about why I hadn’t been there, why I hadn’t known she was sick. But it sat between us at those early Sunday night dinners like a third person at the table. Finally, about 2 months into our renewed relationship, he brought it up. “Your mother asked about you,” he said quietly. “We were at his place. He was grilling steaks. I was making a salad.

Near the end, she was on a lot of morphine. Sometimes she’d forget. She’d ask where you were when you were coming to visit. I stopped chopping tomatoes. What did you tell her? That you were busy? That you’d visit soon? I didn’t have the heart to tell her we weren’t speaking. That I didn’t even have your current phone number. I’m sorry.

 I should have Let me finish. He flipped the stakes. Didn’t look at me. the fight we had about medical school versus software development. I was an ass. I was trying to live my dreams through you, trying to make you into something you weren’t. Your mother told me that many times. I didn’t listen.

 And I lost 8 years with my son because of my pride. I left. I could have called. Could have come back. Pride goes both ways. It does. But I’m your father. I should have been the bigger person. Should have reached out. Should have. He paused. Took a breath. should have told you it was okay to be exactly who you are. A brilliant software developer who makes more money than I do and is probably happier than if you’d spent 8 years in medical school resenting me.

We didn’t hug. Neither of us is particularly good at that. But we looked at each other across the grill and something settled. Something that had been broken for 8 years clicked back into place. “I’m glad you didn’t die,” he said. Obviously because you’re my son, but also because you make a damn good ribeye marinade and it would have died with you.

 Also because I just got you back and I’m not ready to lose you again. That’s the only reason. And I would have missed you slightly. Love you too, Dad. He smiled. Raised his beer to second chances. To second chances. Last week I ran into Derek at a coffee shop. He saw me, turned to leave. Derek, I called out. He stopped.

 Turned around slowly. How’s the job search going? His face hardened. You know exactly how it’s going. You made sure of that. I made sure people knew the truth. What they did with that information was their choice. You destroyed my career. No, you destroyed your career when you decided to [ __ ] my wife and help her try to kill me for insurance money.

 I didn’t know about that. The insurance thing. That was all her. The PI report says otherwise, but believe what you need to believe. He left without another word. I don’t feel bad about Derek or Sarah. They made their choices. They tried to use my medical emergency as an opportunity and they failed. My father says I went too far with the social media post.

 That I should have taken the high road. I disagree. The high road would have let Sarah play victim. Let her pretend she was the wronged spouse. Let her move on with her life without consequences. This way, everyone knows exactly who she is. And honestly, knowing my father has my back now, knowing I’ve rebuilt my company and my life, knowing that Sarah’s reputation is permanently destroyed and she had to leave the state to escape it.

 I sleep pretty well at night. The aneurysm they said might kill me ended up being the best thing that ever happened to me. It gave me back my father, showed me who my wife really was before it was too late. Let me burn down the people who tried to burn me. 300,000 in medical bills. My father wrote off every cent.

 “Family doesn’t charge family,” he said. Sarah wanted me dead for $500,000. Instead, I got my father back.