My Father-in-Law Stopped the Divorce on His Deathbed

01 "Imogen Fox, here's the divorce agreement. Take a look. Except for your old clothes, you don't get to take a single thing—not the savings, not the house, not the car." Roger Dickerson slammed a stack of A4 pages down on the coffee table, and the sharp crack of it cut through the dead-silent living room. On the sofa behind him sat the old man I had waited on for thirteen full years—my father-in-law. I didn't reach for the agreement. I turned to face him instead, my voice trembling a little. "Dad, thirteen years. I cleaned up after you, I sat with you through every round of chemo and radiation. And you're going to sit there and watch Roger throw me out with nothing?" The old man kept his head down, his fingers clamped hard around the dragon's-head handle of his cane. His cloudy eyes flicked once, then he turned his face away and let out a few muddled coughs from his throat. Not a single word. Roger sneered and lit a cigarette. "Quit whining. Dad's doing this for the good of the Dickerson family. If you know what's good for you, you'll sign now and not make a scene." I looked at the two of them, and suddenly these thirteen years felt like nothing but a joke. I picked up the pen. Slowly the corners of my mouth lifted into a brilliant smile that neither of them could read. "Fine. I'll sign." …… "Family of bed 32, Les Dickerson's medication needs a refill. And tomorrow's targeted-therapy drug—the doctor's asking, imported or domestic?" The nurse's loud voice pulled me back into the ward with its smell of disinfectant. I stood up quickly, rubbed my stiff lower back, and said with a polite smile, "The imported one—it works better, fewer side effects. Nurse, I'll go pay right now." She glanced at me, sympathy in her eyes. "Immy, on your own again? The old man's been in here more than half a month. How come we've never seen that big-shot husband of yours?" I tucked a loose strand of hair behind my ear and reeled off the excuse I knew by heart. "He's busy. The company's got a big project going, he's away on a business trip. A man has to be out there making his way—things at home, I've got covered." She shook her head and left. I looked at the balance on my bank card and let out a quiet sigh. There was less than five thousand left on it. Back in the ward, Les Dickerson was propped against the head of the bed, tubes running out of him, his face a waxy yellow. When he saw me come in, he pointed at the empty cup on the nightstand. I hurried to pour some warm water, slid in a straw, and held it to his lips. "Dad, the doctor says your numbers are improving. This imported drug is expensive, but it really does work." I wiped his mouth as I spoke, keeping my voice gentle. He took two sips and mumbled, "Where's Roger? Still no time?" "Mm. He just messaged me—he's out to dinner with a client." I lied. Roger hadn't sent anything. On his social-media feed, at that very moment, was a photo of him at the golf course, captioned: Enjoying a quiet afternoon. It wasn't always like this. Roger and I, right after we married, we were different. Back then we were college classmates. I was the belle of the department; he was the poor kid. I married him over my family's objections. The wedding was shabby—even the ring was only silver. The second year of our marriage, my mother-in-law died suddenly of a brain hemorrhage. Right after that, my father-in-law was diagnosed with rectal cancer. Late stage. That year Roger's career was just getting off the ground. He was a low-level salesman, running himself ragged across this city every day. Rose Dickerson, his sister, had married out long before. The moment she heard her father was sick, she brought her kid straight back to cry poverty. "Immy, my Howie's got school, and I've got my job—this kind of nursing work, I really can't do it. Besides, Dad's always doted on Roger the most. You're the elder son's wife. This has to fall to you." Then she dumped two cases of discount milk on us and ran. I was young then, soft-hearted, and I felt for Roger. I quit my job as a manager at a multinational firm, went home to the family, and in that room full of the smell of medicine and old age, I stayed for thirteen years. Thirteen years. Roger went from salesman to head of a branch company, driving a luxury car, dressed in designer labels. And I went from a white-collar woman everyone envied to a middle-aged one who could only haggle over the price of groceries and reeked of kitchen grease. I changed his soiled incontinence pad with practiced hands and carried the basin to the bathroom to rinse it. The cold water ran over my hands, chilling me to the bone. The woman in the mirror—fine lines all around her eyes, hair dry and brittle. Where was any trace of who I used to be? My phone buzzed. A message from Roger. Three cold words: Home tonight.