She Traded Her Father For Fashion Chapter 1

My wife cared about appearances more than life itself. To her, her best friend's demands were holy scripture.

On Father’s Day, I stood in the hospital corridor, clutching the critical condition notice. My hand shook so hard the paper rattled.

"Dad had a massive brain hemorrhage," I said into the receiver, my voice tight and cracking. "He needs ten thousand dollars for emergency surgery right now. Transfer the money!"

A cold, mocking laugh cut through the static.

"Brittany is ten thousand short for her bag, and I just lent it to her," Cathy said.

"Besides, your dad's condition is terminal anyway. I'm not throwing my money away on a lost cause."

She hung up before I could even draw breath to explain.

My hand froze against my ear. It hit me then—she assumed the man dying in the ICU was my father.

Since you would rather buy a designer purse than save a life, Cathy, then you can be the one to walk into that room and pull the plug on your own father.

* * *

But the man dying in that room was still my father-in-law. I swallowed my pride and dialed Brittany's number.

"Luke, Cathy is busy helping me pick out my bag," Brittany said, her voice dripping with easy condescension. "Can you stop ruining the mood with your dad's endless drama?"

I gripped the phone, my knuckles turning stark white. "Brittany, that ten thousand dollars is a matter of life and death. Does this bag really have to be bought today?"

"Oh, please, Luke." Brittany let out a sharp, grating giggle. "A woman’s social standing is built on how she presents herself. Cathy wanted to support me for this gala, so she offered. It's called sisterhood. What would a guy like you know? Always using your dad as an excuse—there are better ways to beg for money."

I took a slow, deep breath, trying to steady the rising heat in my chest. "Put Cathy on. Now."

"Cathy said she doesn't want to hear you whining."

The line went dead, followed by the flat, hollow tone of the hang-up.

I stood outside the double doors of the ICU, staring down at the red ink on the medical forms. Half an hour ago, Robert had collapsed in the driveway. By the time the ambulance arrived, he was barely responsive. The surgeon had been blunt: a massive intracranial bleed. If we didn't perform an emergency craniotomy immediately, he wouldn't survive the night.

But my own accounts were dry—I had just emptied my savings to cover the closing costs on our new house. I had maybe a few hundred dollars left. The only cash we had was the ten thousand dollars we had jointly saved for a new car, sitting in Cathy's account.

And she had refused without even asking who was lying on the gurney.

My phone vibrated. A sixty-second voice note from Cathy popped up. I tapped it, and her voice filled the quiet hallway, loud and sharp.

"Luke, I’m warning you, stop calling Brittany! You're making me look pathetic in front of my friends. Do you have any idea how embarrassing this is for me? Your dad’s little issues can be managed with some meds. You don’t need to throw money at a hospital. Let me tell you something: I made this money, and I'll spend it how I want. Keep acting up, and we're done!"

A quiet, bitter laugh escaped my throat.

My own father was perfectly healthy, living comfortably on a decent retirement pension. It was her father, Robert, who constantly faked minor ailments to guilt us into giving him allowance money.

I stared at the glowing screen and typed a single line: Are you absolutely sure you won't spare a single dime of that ten thousand for treatment?

Her reply came instantly: Not a penny! Give it up! Lending it to my best friend is an investment in my network. Giving it to your dad is pouring water into a black hole. If you're so desperate, go borrow it yourself and leave me alone!

I stared at the words, a cold smile settling on my face.

The heavy doors swung open, and a nurse hurried out, looking around frantically. "Family of Robert Evans! Have you paid the deposit? His blood pressure is bottoming out. If we don't get him into the operating room now, we’re going to lose him!"

I stepped forward and took the clipboard from her hand.

"Nurse, I'm his son-in-law," I said, my voice entirely flat. "My wife just told me his condition is terminal anyway, and she refuses to pay."

The nurse’s eyes went wide. "What? This is a human life!"

"I know," I said, looking her in the eye. "But she used the money to buy her friend a designer purse. So, I can't sign the financial consent, and I can't pay."

The nurse stared at me, utterly bewildered. "Then... what do we do? We can't just let him..."

"Just proceed with palliative care then," I interrupted quietly. "Keep him comfortable with basic medication. Let's keep him stable for now."

She bit her lip, looking at me with a mixture of horror and pity, before turning and running back into the emergency room.

I looked down at Cathy’s smiling profile picture on my phone.

Since you care so much about your little social circle, and since you think this is a bottomless pit... you can clean up your own mess.