I returned home for Thanksgiving, eager to embrace the holiday spirit. The house stood silent—save for Victor, my husband’s stepfather, seated in a rocking chair

Let’s begin. After our agreement, Victor sank back in his chair, exhaustion evident in the slump of his shoulders. The excitement of our newfound alliance had temporarily energized him, but now the fatigue returned to his face.

You should rest, I said, noticing the pallor beneath his weathered skin. I’ll finish making our dinner. Victor shook his head.

First, there’s something you need to see. He pushed himself up with effort. My medical records.

You need to understand what we’re working with and how little time we have. He led me to a small bedroom that had clearly once been an office but was converted into a makeshift sleeping space. A hospital bed occupied one corner, though Victor hadn’t been using it.

Instead, a regular twin bed against the opposite wall showed signs of use. Can’t stand that contraption, he explained, gesturing at the hospital bed. Makes me feel like I’m already in hospice.

From a locked drawer in the desk, Victor withdrew a thick folder labeled simply medical. He handed it to me without ceremony. Pancreatic cancer, he said flatly as I opened it.

Stage four. Diagnosed three months ago. I scanned the documents, my stomach tightening at the clinical descriptions and grim prognosis.

Various oncologists’ notes, treatment recommendations, and scan results told the unmistakable story of a terminal illness. Two months, Victor added. Maybe less now.

The last scan showed rapid progression. I looked up sharply. Brady knows this? Oh yes.

They all do. His mother was at the appointment when we got the diagnosis. Two days later she started talking about how she needed a break from caretaking.

His laugh held no humor. Sixty-six years old and claiming exhaustion while I’m dying at seventy-eight. The cruelty of it struck me like a physical blow.

They abandoned you knowing you only had months left? Weeks more likely. Victor eased himself onto the edge of the bed. But that’s not even the worst of it.

Look at the medication list. I flipped to the prescription sheets. Multiple medications were listed.

Pain management, anti-nausea drugs, enzymes to help with digestion. Check the bathroom cabinet, Victor directed. Compare what’s there with what should be there.

In the adjoining bathroom I found a disorganized collection of pill bottles. As I examined them comparing with the documentation, disturbing discrepancies emerged. The powerful pain medication had been refilled twice according to the pharmacy labels, but the bottle was nearly full.

The expensive enzyme supplements were only half full when they should have been almost untouched based on the refill date. They’ve been diluting them, Victor confirmed when I returned with the evidence. One pill instead of two.

Half doses of the pain medication. And those appointments for the palliative care specialist? Too expensive, Elaine said. My hands trembled with anger as I returned the documentation to its folder.

That’s not just neglect, Victor. That’s abuse. It’s what happens when people see you as an obstacle rather than a person.

He pulled a small notebook from beneath his pillow and handed it to me. I’ve been keeping track. Times when medications were missed or reduced.

Appointments cancelled. Money that disappeared from my checking account for home care supplies that never materialized. The meticulous documentation stunned me.

Pages of dates, times, specific incidents. Despite his illness, Victor’s mind remained razor sharp. Let me fix you something to eat, I said, needing a moment to process everything.

You must be hungry. In the kitchen I found pitiful supplies. A few cans of soup, some stale bread, milk on the verge of spoiling.

From my grocery run, I managed to put together a decent meal of roasted turkey breast, mashed potatoes and green beans. Not the Thanksgiving feast I’d planned but far better than leftover soup. As we ate at the small kitchen table, Victor studied me.

Tell me about your marriage, he said finally. When did you first notice Brady wasn’t who you thought he was? The directness of the question caught me off guard. I poked at my food considering how to answer.

It was gradual, I admitted. When we first met, Brady was attentive, supportive of my graphic design work. I was building my client base, had my own small studio apartment, good friends.

I paused, realizing how much had changed. After we married he suggested I work from home to save on studio rent. Made sense financially, but then my equipment kept having issues.

Computer problems, software glitches. Victor nodded knowingly. Isolation tactic.

Exactly. Then came suggestions about which clients weren’t worth my time. Concerns about me being out late with friends…