Slapped on Our Anniversary - Chapter 7: Chapter 7
You are reading Slapped on Our Anniversary, Chapter 7: Chapter 7. Read more chapters of Slapped on Our Anniversary.
"If Ethan treated you like crap, you could've just settled the score with him and been done with it. But what did I ever do to you?" Adam pushed the money I'd tried to give him back into my hands, his voice tight with frustration. "You're seriously trying to pay me back for a few bottles of medicine? Like I'm that hard up for cash?"
He refused the transfer. Refused the cash. Left me no choice but to lay it out plain: "I just want a clean break. No debts. No loose ends."
Adam knew my history with Ethan. After a long sigh, he finally took the money, though it clearly didn't sit right with him.
"Tomorrow's your dad's anniversary. Let's go see him together."
I nodded.
Adam hesitated, then asked, "That guy Ethan… he still bothering you?"
I looked down. My phone buzzed—another message.
Rachel, I was wrong. I know I was wrong. You can hate me, scream at me, hit me—I'll take it all. Just don't shut me out like before. Please, let me take you to a doctor. Okay?
A thousand variations of the same plea over the past month. All pointless. My illness wasn't something doctors could fix.
At my father's grave, the words caught in my throat. Tears spilled over before I could speak.
"Dad… I was wrong. I should've listened to you."
I never should've gone back.
The Wilson family curse—a hereditary disease with a 50/50 shot at striking. And once it did? No coming back.
Ethan accused me of not loving him, of caring only about money.
If I didn't love him, why did I walk away the second I found out I might carry the gene?
If I didn't love him, how could I have endured seven years of his bitterness without ever telling him the truth?
Every time I got sick, he suffered ten times worse than I did.
If—no, when—the disease finally took me, how much agony would Ethan go through, forced to watch me die?
I couldn't breathe just thinking about it.
So I asked Adam, my oldest friend, to help me stage the ultimate lie.
I thought it would set Ethan free. But three years later, he came back—successful, determined, demanding a second chance.
I refused. Until my dad got sick. Until the medical bills piled up.
I went to Ethan for help. He gave it, with one condition: Marry me. And never ask for a divorce.
The night before I agreed, my father gripped my hand, his voice raw. "Rachel, don't go back. If I'd known my odds back then—if we'd had the tests—I never would've married your mother."
His next words haunted me: "Because worse than dying? Watching the person you love die in front of you, powerless to stop it."
I learned the truth of that soon enough.
My mother's pain eclipsed even my father's.
After his diagnosis, she cried every day. The woman who once took pride in her appearance stopped bothering to brush her hair.
He refused the transfer. Refused the cash. Left me no choice but to lay it out plain: "I just want a clean break. No debts. No loose ends."
Adam knew my history with Ethan. After a long sigh, he finally took the money, though it clearly didn't sit right with him.
"Tomorrow's your dad's anniversary. Let's go see him together."
I nodded.
Adam hesitated, then asked, "That guy Ethan… he still bothering you?"
I looked down. My phone buzzed—another message.
Rachel, I was wrong. I know I was wrong. You can hate me, scream at me, hit me—I'll take it all. Just don't shut me out like before. Please, let me take you to a doctor. Okay?
A thousand variations of the same plea over the past month. All pointless. My illness wasn't something doctors could fix.
At my father's grave, the words caught in my throat. Tears spilled over before I could speak.
"Dad… I was wrong. I should've listened to you."
I never should've gone back.
The Wilson family curse—a hereditary disease with a 50/50 shot at striking. And once it did? No coming back.
Ethan accused me of not loving him, of caring only about money.
If I didn't love him, why did I walk away the second I found out I might carry the gene?
If I didn't love him, how could I have endured seven years of his bitterness without ever telling him the truth?
Every time I got sick, he suffered ten times worse than I did.
If—no, when—the disease finally took me, how much agony would Ethan go through, forced to watch me die?
I couldn't breathe just thinking about it.
So I asked Adam, my oldest friend, to help me stage the ultimate lie.
I thought it would set Ethan free. But three years later, he came back—successful, determined, demanding a second chance.
I refused. Until my dad got sick. Until the medical bills piled up.
I went to Ethan for help. He gave it, with one condition: Marry me. And never ask for a divorce.
The night before I agreed, my father gripped my hand, his voice raw. "Rachel, don't go back. If I'd known my odds back then—if we'd had the tests—I never would've married your mother."
His next words haunted me: "Because worse than dying? Watching the person you love die in front of you, powerless to stop it."
I learned the truth of that soon enough.
My mother's pain eclipsed even my father's.
After his diagnosis, she cried every day. The woman who once took pride in her appearance stopped bothering to brush her hair.
End of Slapped on Our Anniversary Chapter 7. Continue reading Chapter 8 or return to Slapped on Our Anniversary book page.