Swapped Diagnosis My Dying Husband Kicked Me Out Penniless

Her eyes blazed with provocation.

Thaddeus caught the scent of braised meat, and his Adam's apple bobbed.

In the early stages of pancreatic cancer, appetite vanishes. But his had been misdiagnosed as gastritis, and the only thing he'd been taking was antacids. What he felt now was a sick, gnawing hunger that wouldn't quit.

"Perfect timing. I'm starving." He shoved Paulette aside and dropped into a chair, chopsticks already snatching up a chunk of braised pork belly. "Mm. Not bad."

Mrs. Gilbert Sr. shuffled over, shoveling food into her mouth between insults. "The jinx actually has a shred of decency. Figured she'd serve us a proper meal before she crawls off to die."

I watched Thaddeus wolf down the food, shoveling it in like a man possessed. To me, he looked like a pig being fattened for slaughter.

I turned and pulled a bottle of high-proof liquor from the cabinet.

"Thaddeus, let's have a drink." I filled a glass to the brim. "A toast to your newfound bachelorhood. And to Paulette, of course, on the joyous news of her... little bundle."

Thaddeus grabbed the glass, his face already flushed. "At least you know your place."

He tipped his head back and drained it. As the liquor burned its way down, his brow creased, and his hand drifted to his upper abdomen.

That was his pancreas screaming.

I poured myself a glass of plain water.

Cheers, husband.

This meal is your last.

The atmosphere at the table was strange, but lively. Thaddeus ate with gusto. The braised pork was already gone.

Paulette, eager to play the role of devoted woman, kept piling fatty intestines into his bowl.

"Eat more, Thaddeus. Build up your strength so you can take care of me and the baby." Her voice was syrupy sweet, but her eyes kept sliding toward me, glittering with triumph.

Mrs. Gilbert Sr. had her mouth stuffed full of meat and still managed to berate me. "Look at how thoughtful little Paulette is! And look at you, standing there like a wooden post. You can't even pour a drink properly!"

I picked up the bottle obediently and filled Thaddeus's glass.

"You're right, Mom. I've always been the slow one." My voice was soft. My eyes were empty. "Thaddeus, have another. High proof cuts through all that grease."

He was already half-drunk. The alcohol had stripped away whatever restraint he had, leaving nothing but swagger.

"Pour it! I'm in a great mood today!" He knocked it back in one gulp.

The moment he set the glass down, something shifted.

The flush drained from his face in seconds, replaced by a waxy pallor. Cold sweat beaded along his hairline and slid down his temples.

Thaddeus let out a low grunt. His chopsticks clattered to the floor.

Both hands clamped over his abdomen. His entire body curled inward.

"Thaddeus, what's wrong?" Paulette jolted, her soup spoon splashing into her bowl.

Mrs. Gilbert Sr. held out a chicken leg. "Son, don't go scaring your mother like that."

He couldn't speak. A wet, gurgling sound rose from his throat, and white foam seeped from the corners of his mouth.

The pain was as if a fist had reached inside him and was wringing his organs like a rag. Pancreatic cancer compounded by acute pancreatitis, ignited by alcohol. The agony was the medical equivalent of being flayed alive.

"It hurts... God, it hurts..." The words ground out through clenched teeth. His body listed sideways, and he toppled off the chair, crashing to the floor and dragging it down with him.

"Murder! She's killing him!" Mrs. Gilbert Sr. shrieked, jabbing a finger at me, her eyes bulging red. "It was you! You poisoned the food! You're trying to kill my son!"

She snatched up the empty liquor bottle and hurled it at me.

I stepped aside. The bottle shattered against the wall, glass scattering across the floor.

"Mom, we all ate the same food. How come he's the only one who's been 'poisoned'?"

I looked down at Thaddeus writhing on the floor, my gaze cold and clinical. Then I pulled out my phone. "Let's call an ambulance first. Wait too long, and it might be too late."

The ambulance arrived quickly.

Mrs. Gilbert Sr. wailed and beat her chest. Paulette stood to the side, dabbing at her tears. And I stood apart from all of it, calm as a stranger passing through.

The hospital they took Thaddeus to happened to be the very one where he worked.

After they wheeled him into the emergency room, Mrs. Gilbert Sr. collapsed onto the floor, slapping her thighs and howling. "My poor boy! My poor, poor boy! Cursed with a wife who's a walking death sentence for the whole family!"