Total pages in book: 30
Estimated words: 28323 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 142(@200wpm)___ 113(@250wpm)___ 94(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 28323 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 142(@200wpm)___ 113(@250wpm)___ 94(@300wpm)
Filled with new love, I married Betsy after graduation and entered medical school around the same time. My wife supported me through the grinding years of study; my sleepless residency; and finally, through certification and into professional practice. Betsy sacrificed a lot so that I could pursue my career, and often looked fatigued, with fine lines around her eyes and a tired smile. Her blonde hair started to go limp and then fall out, but I figured it was just the stress and extra hours at the clinic.
But it wasn’t. My wife’s fatigue increased. She switched from working hands-on with clients to a desk job behind the counter at the clinic. She also lost a ton of weight, and although we’d been trying for a baby, it was clear that that wasn’t going to happen. Instead, Betsy kept getting thinner and weaker, and finally, a specialist announced the bad news. My wife was suffering from liver cirrhosis, and it was at an advanced stage. There was no hope for her.
We couldn’t believe it. My wife was still young, and there was no reason for this to be happening. She didn’t drink, she exercised, and took care of herself. How the fuck did she come down with fucking cirrhosis? As a doctor myself, I went berserk looking for answers. I researched all the latest treatments, including gene therapy, DNA re-segmenting, experimental drugs, and even animal organ transplants. It’s sad, but I truly was desperate, and did everything and anything in my power to rescue my wife.
But there was no way to rescue her. Instead, Betsy grew thinner and weaker, her eyes going yellow as her skin jaundiced. Her bones seemed to protrude from her skin, and she lost so much weight that her forearm was the diameter of a popsicle stick. But Betsy was brave. Even through the medications that made her nauseous, not to mention the non-stop pain, she put on a brave face. She always had a smile for her daughter, even though the little girl didn’t fully understand what was happening. Betsy also always had a smile for me, despite the fact that my heart was breaking.
Things came to an end one fateful day. It was the darkest hour, and I held Betsy’s hand when she passed. My wife died in her sleep with a smile on her face, and when the sun rose the next morning, I knew a chapter in my life had ended. No longer was there a selfless, beautiful woman at my side. Instead, I was a helpless soul who had lost his North Star.
I went berserk again. I threw myself into a lifestyle that would have disgusted my wife. Yes, I worked non-stop at my practice, but I also began acting like a man with too much money. I re-did our townhouse from basement to roof, and filled it with trophy objects and artwork. I began buying luxury cars. I purchased slick designer suits to wear beneath my doctor’s whites, and dated women who were the polar opposite of my late wife. These were women filled to the brim with silicone, Botox, hyaluronic acid, and breast implants. They had artificially high cheekbones, and quite a few got “fox eye” surgery, which gives them a Spock-like look. Even crazier, Ozempic has only come onto the market recently, but I’ve already caught three women jabbing themselves in the stomach with the appetite suppressant. What the fuck? I don’t even like thin women, and yet these ladies were trying to get themselves down to the size of coatracks.
My late wife would be disgusted if she saw how I’ve changed. She would shudder with horror at the women I’ve dated since her passing because they’re Betsy’s polar opposites. But there’s a reason why I seek out shallow, superficial bitches, and it’s because I don’t want an emotional connection. With my current roster of ladies, it’s easy to walk away. There’s no guilt, attachment, or even friendship, truth be told. But the women don’t care. So long as I bid adieu with an expensive piece of jewelry, it’s all good. They got what they wanted (a taste of the luxe lifestyle), as did I (physical release).
But something’s changed recently, and that’s the addition of my stepdaughter to my household. Betsy made me promise to look after Nova the day before she passed, although the contours of that pledge were amorphous. There wasn’t anything specific, like “set up a trust fund” or “make sure Nova goes to college.” Betsy merely held my hand and said, “Please, Hunter. Take care of her.” Of course, I promised I would because I was heartbroken with grief and would have promised my wife anything she asked.
But my stepdaughter’s changed since those dark days. I’ve known her since she was a small child, but she was never around much because even after I married Betsy, Nova continued to live primarily with her bio dad, Burt. Sure, the little girl would come over, and I’d occasionally make myself available for visits to the zoo and the like, but it wasn’t often. Nova was Betsy’s child, and I wasn’t looking to be a father when she already had one.