My MIL Needed Chemotherapy – A Year Later, I Learned Where the Money Really Went

“We’ll figure it out, Ethan. I promise. We’ll do whatever it takes.”

That night, when he came home, he looked wrecked.

His eyes were red, his face was pale, and he barely touched his plate of pasta. “They’re starting chemo next week,” he murmured. “The doctor doesn’t want to lose any time.

And Mom… she’s scared, Kate. I’m scared, too.”

I wrapped my arms around him, resting my head on his shoulder. “Then we’ll be scared together.

She’s going to beat this, honey. I told you, I won’t stop until we’ve done everything we can. We’re going to help her through this,” I said, trying to sound as certain as possible.

From that moment on, it became our shared mission. Gail’s illness wrapped itself around our lives. Ethan would rush off to appointments, text me updates from hospital waiting rooms, and come home late looking hollow and distant.

And I — well, I gave everything I had to help him carry it. I gave my savings to Ethan. I picked up freelance work, helping create websites for small businesses.

I worked through weekends, through migraines, and even through Christmas. We canceled our vacation plans, postponed repairs on the roof, and I even sold my grandmother’s beautiful gold snowflake necklace, something I’d promised myself I’d never part with. Every single time Ethan reached out for help, I handed everything over without flinching, because, at the end of the day, this was not about money.

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