I Married a 20-Year-Old Millionaire I Cared for to Save My Daughter – After the Wedding, He Gave Me an Envelope with Her Name on It and Said, ‘This Was Why I Really Needed You’
I told myself I wasn’t a terrible mother for saying yes. I told myself there were worse things than being judged by strangers. There were hospital bills. There were doctors with careful voices. There was my daughter, Lisa, lying still in a bed while time ran out.
But on our wedding night, Adrian handed me a crimson envelope with Lisa’s name written across the front.
I told myself I wasn’t a terrible mother for saying yes.
“Open it,” he said.
I stared at him.
My comatose daughter’s name was in my new husband’s pocket.
“Adrian,” I said, “why is my daughter’s name on that?”
His fingers tightened around the envelope. “Because there is no way back now, Kirsten. There is no way out of this.”
I stared at him.
***
That morning, I had been sitting beside Lisa’s hospital bed, brushing her dark hair over one shoulder. Even in a coma, she was still my girl, the one who hated tangles in her hair. Still nineteen. Still mine.
Dr. Evans stood in the doorway with a folder pressed against his chest.
“Kirsten,” he said, “we need to talk about the neuro-rehab program.”
“I paid what I could yesterday, Dr. Evans. I can bring more on Monday.”
“The deposit is due next Friday. Without it, they will release her spot.”
I gripped Lisa’s hand. “Then hold it until Friday. Please.”
“I paid what I could yesterday.”
“I can’t.”
“You mean billing won’t bother trying.”
His face softened. “If the deposit isn’t paid, we can continue basic support until a long-term care transfer is arranged.”
