I fell in love with Derek at 24, and by 26 we had our daughter, Molly. Our marriage seemed steady—until his promotion at 28 brought long hours, secrecy, and eventually a younger woman, Tessa. Divorce was bitter; he moved in with her, I stayed with Molly, scraping by as a single mom.
When Molly broke her leg at five, surgery was required, and insurance didn’t cover the specialist. I called Derek for help.
“I don’t have that kind of money,” he said—yet three days later, I saw a screenshot: he’d bought a brand-new car for Tessa.
I called him. “You said you couldn’t pay for Molly’s surgery.”
“It’s different,” he snapped.
I hung up and made one phone call he never saw coming—to Tessa’s mother, Margaret. She was appalled, checked Derek’s posts, and publicly called him out for prioritizing a luxury car over his daughter’s health.
Within a day, Derek wired the full surgery cost plus extra for follow-ups. The lesson was clear: Molly’s well-being comes first. The surgery went well, and later, Derek visited Molly at the hospital, whispering, “Daddy loves you more than any car.”