I thought Tuesdays were sacred—football practice nights for my husband and son. While they were gone, I did laundry. That’s when I found a clinic appointment slip hidden in his clothes. It was for that night. For both of them.
Digging deeper, I uncovered medical records in my husband’s locked cabinet. My son wasn’t at practice. He was undergoing medical procedures—blood tests, biopsies, and preparations for a bone marrow donation.
For another child.
A child I didn’t know existed.
My husband had a secret daughter who was seriously ill, and he’d been taking our son to a clinic under the guise of football practice—without my knowledge or consent—using him as a donor to save the life he’d hidden from me.
This wasn’t an affair.
It was deception, medical fraud, and child endangerment.
I didn’t call my husband.
I called the police.