Before I could reply, Chloe called.
“Mom, please don’t shout.”
“What happened?”
“I got married.”
“To that man?”
“Yes. His name is Arthur.”
I demanded his age.
“Fifty-six.”
Chloe was twenty-two.
I lost control. I accused her of throwing away her future and letting a wealthy older man buy her loyalty. She did not argue. She only asked me to wait until she came home.
For a week, I imagined diamonds, luxury apartments, and a daughter who had confused money with love.
But when Chloe stepped through the airport gate, none of it matched reality.
She wore no expensive jewelry and looked pale, thin, and exhausted.
At home, I confronted her.
“Did you marry him for money?”
Instead of answering, she placed an old hospital receipt on the kitchen table.
It came from the hospital where I received cancer treatment ten years earlier. The payment section read: paid in full by an anonymous donor.
