My husband secretly sold our dream house and demanded a divorce as I lay dying in the hospital, but!

A Life of Stitches and Smiles

I married Raymond because he is the son of my former boss, and four years ago we tied the knot. Although we haven’t started a family yet, we have enjoyed a generally happy life together.

Raymond dedicates himself to his job and often has to be away, which leaves me feeling a bit lonely sometimes. But he makes up for it by spending quality time with me on his days off.

I first met Raymond through my father, and it wasn’t long before he suggested I should embrace the role of a stay-at-home wife. This arrangement gave me ample time to pursue my interests.

I took up sewing and knitting, befriending our neighbors, and even started a fitness routine. Each winter I would gift Raymond handmade scarves and gloves.

Though my initial attempts were a bit amateurish, I steadily improved. His appreciative comments over the years encouraged me greatly, and I grew to love crafting even more.

I dream of the day when we can perhaps sew together as a family. I once shared this thought with Raymond, and he entertained the idea of joining in when that time comes, offering me a warm smile in return.,

Our life might seem quite privileged to others, thanks to Raymond’s substantial income. I never skimped on supporting him, managing the household, or making the most of the moments we shared on his days off.

I imagined a quiet, content future with my kind husband and hopefully children. However, about three years ago, a troubling incident occurred.

The Cold Awakening

I was waiting for Raymond to return from work when I suddenly felt dizzy and collapsed. Raymond rushed home just in time and hurriedly took me to the hospital.

As I lay in my hospital bed recovering and vulnerable, Raymond smiling shockingly confessed.

“I only married you because you’re the boss’s daughter.”

Seeing the scarves and gloves I had made for him carelessly discarded, devalued, and hearing his blunt words, I felt a strong urge to confront him with reality. I wanted to show him he was mistaken if he thought he could demean my worth.

Despite the hurt, imagining his eventual realization of my value brought a wry smile to my face. I am Ashley Carroll, and this revelation was a harsh reality check on what I thought was a loving marriage.,

When I opened my eyes, I found myself in a hospital bed. From the snippets of the conversation between Raymond and the doctors, I understood that my condition was serious and likely a lifelong issue to manage.

It wasn’t immediately life-threatening, but the risk of recurrence meant that I needed to remain in the hospital for a while. Raymond tried to reassure me during one of his visits, holding my hand gently.

“It looks like you’ll be here for some time, but don’t worry. I’ll make time to visit and we’ll get through this together.”

His presence and words eased my anxiety. Despite having no solid reason to believe so, I felt that everything might just turn out all right with my supportive husband by my side.

The Hospital Routine

True to his word, Raymond visited nearly every day. He would ask about my day and, noticing how the hospital routine bored me, he even brought my favorite sewing tools.

We spent our time together sewing and chatting about mundane daily events. Teaching my clumsy husband to sew became a highlight of my days, helping me to momentarily forget the dreariness of hospital life.,

This routine continued for about a year. I knitted a scarf for him as part of our yearly tradition, but after that, Raymond’s visits became sporadic.

Initially, I thought he was just caught up with work. I kept myself busy with sewing, planning to give him a pair of gloves I was making the next time he visited.

Doctors had informed me that I was likely to be discharged by the end of the year. I poured all my emotions into crafting those gloves, hoping to bridge the gap created by the time we spent apart.

The Chilling Return

However, when Raymond finally visited after a long absence, his reaction was chilling. He glanced coldly at the gloves I offered and said.

“Are you still making these? It’s honestly a nuisance now.”

He then handed me the scarf I had painstakingly knitted for him last year, untouched and pristine, along with divorce papers. Stunned, I could only stare as the reality sank in.,

The scarf, still as new as the day I had given it to him, and his harsh words marked a painful end to what I had once believed was a supportive partnership. He remarked casually.

“Has it been three years since your hospitalization? I heard you’ll be discharged soon.”

His indifference was as cutting as the cold dismissal of everything I had cherished and invested my love in. Raymond bluntly stated as he pushed the divorce papers toward me.

“But I can’t keep taking care of you.”

I stared at them stunned as the weight of his words sunk in. His signature was already on the documents, a clear sign of his resolve.

I had sensed this might happen, especially after his visits became less frequent. In an attempt to dismiss these fears, I had told myself he was just overwhelmed with work.

However, the caring Raymond I knew would have kept me informed no matter how busy he was. As he stood there waiting for my reaction, I managed to ask him calmly why he wanted a divorce.

A Performance for the Office

It wasn’t out of desperation to hold on to him; rather, I felt resigned, almost prepared for this moment. If the gentle Raymond I loved believed a divorce was necessary, perhaps he was right.

Yet part of me was confused because he was the one who had promised we would face this challenge together. Raymond’s response was harsh and dismissive.

“Isn’t it obvious? Ever since I married you, all I’ve had are troubles. I’m sick and tired of the scarves and gloves you give me every year.”

He laughed mockingly, making it clear that he viewed my affectionate gestures as trivial and my illness as an inconvenience.

“I only married you because you’re the boss’s daughter. How can I be expected to deal with your illness on top of everything else?”

As he spoke, I noticed a fancy high-end scarf around his neck, one I did not recognize and certainly had not given him. It was superior to anything I had made.

This realization hurt deep. It seemed he had never appreciated any of my handmade gifts, possibly finding them annoying all along.

In every discussion about happiness, love, or loneliness we had, Raymond had probably seen me as naive for cherishing these ideals. He continued, his words cutting through the air like a knife.

“Who can even wear a handmade scarf without feeling embarrassed nowadays? Receiving such things is a nuisance.”

Looking at the divorce papers again, I felt a mix of sadness and relief. Sadness because the man I loved had changed so drastically, and relief because at least now I knew the truth about how he truly felt.

The clarity was painful but necessary. Unaware of the underlying motives, my hospitalization marked a shift in my relationship with Raymond.

After my father retired from the company where Raymond worked, there was no longer a need for him to maintain appearances with me. Raymond seemed supportive visiting me between work commitments.

I now realized that these visits were more for the show, likely discussed at his workplace to paint him as a dedicated husband. He managed his professional responsibilities while caring for his ill wife.,

This narrative had served him well, boosting his image among colleagues who viewed him as both hardworking and compassionate. He had cultivated this persona to his advantage, something I only came to understand later.

During a candid conversation, Raymond admitted that discussing my illness at work garnered him sympathy and accolades. He confessed without remorse.

“It made things easier at work. If I stayed late, I was diligent. If I needed a break, all I had to mention was my sick wife.”

He even hinted that my illness had inadvertently helped him secure a promotion there. He said with a cold grin.

“They’re all idiots, but I have to thank your illness for that.”

This revelation crushed me. The man I had loved was unrecognizable, revealing a selfishness I couldn’t have imagined.

As we concluded our conversation, I handed him the signed divorce papers with a simple farewell.

“Well, if I could be of help, that’s good. We probably won’t see each other again, so take care.”

He took the papers and left promptly, showing no further interest. The divorce was a quiet affair, and in the solitude that followed, I wept.

The House That Wasn’t His

Eventually, I was discharged and returned to live with my parents. My father was outraged when he learned the full extent of Raymond’s behavior.

“I never thought he would be that kind of guy!”

he exclaimed. However, by then I had found a sense of detachment and calm.

I reassured him, expressing my desire to move back home after settling affairs at the house I had shared with Raymond. My parents were supportive, encouraging me to do whatever made me happy.

I decided to live with them for the time being. Before fully moving in, I planned one last visit to the house, perhaps to collect my things and close that chapter of my life for good.

After my discharge from the hospital, I planned to return to the house where I had lived with my husband. However, upon arriving, I was confronted with a startling issue: the front door lock wasn’t functioning.

Puzzled, my parents and I decided to ring the doorbell only to be greeted by a stranger. In my confusion, I asked about his presence.,

He informed us that he had purchased the house a few months ago and was now living there with his family. This revelation only intensified my parents’ anger.

I chose not to disturb the new family and quietly walked away. Still, I needed answers, so I immediately called my husband.

He casually confirmed over the phone.

“Yeah, I sold it while you were in the hospital. I’m keeping the sales money as compensation. It was my house to begin with, so you have no complaint, right?”

His indifferent tone left me sighing in disbelief. I wished he had informed me sooner.

From what the new owner shared, it seemed the house had been sold quite some time ago, likely about a year back when my husband’s visits had ceased.

Although our divorce had been finalized with the submission of our signed papers, we had agreed to discuss asset division and compensation after my discharge. We planned a meeting for the following week.

Yet my husband had already acted on his own. I found his obliviousness troubling. Over the phone, I told him.,

“You don’t understand anything, do you?”

Confused, he asked.

“Huh? What do you mean?”

I responded.

“I’ll explain in detail next week,”

and hung up. I turned to my parents, who were visibly worried, and asked my father for a favor.

He quickly prepared the necessary documents for the upcoming discussion. Despite the short notice, he assured me.

“I’ve got it all prepared. There’s not much time, but we’ll manage.”

His determination was partly fueled by guilt for having introduced me to my husband and his resulting anger towards him.