After my terminal cancer diagnosis.

My husband pulled out the property deed and swore he'd sell everything we owned to pay for my treatment.

My mother-in-law pressed her retirement savings into my hands — years' worth, every penny she'd set aside.

I was so moved I broke down in tears and announced I was giving up treatment. I'd leave the money for them.

But that night, a message came through Lily's kids' smartwatch：

“Mommy, don't believe a word Daddy says!”

“He's been cheating on you!”

“He's making you give up treatment on purpose so he can give all the money to his mistress and their illegitimate son.”

“And he's going to abuse me to death!”

I was shaking all over. I rushed straight into Lily's room. She was sound asleep.

There were no messages on the smartwatch.

And she was five years old. She couldn't possibly have typed all that.

I stood frozen for a full three minutes before calling a car to Phineas Vance's office building.

The office was pitch dark. I stared up at it, then looked down at his text saying he had to work late.

My heart went cold.

The next morning, I put on my most grateful face and told Phineas：

“Honey, I've decided. I'm going to fight this. I'll do the treatment. No more talk about giving up.”

……

The moment the words left my mouth, the bowl slipped from Mrs. Acevedo Sr.'s hands and shattered on the floor, rice scattering everywhere.

Phineas went rigid. He stared at me for a long moment before forcing a smile：

“Babe, you……didn't you already decide to stop treatment? What made you change your mind?”

I calmly wheeled Mrs. Acevedo Sr. aside, grabbed a broom, and swept up the spilled rice.

Then I looked at Phineas：

“I was up all night thinking about it, and you were right. Even though it's late-stage.”

“Medicine is so advanced now. Maybe if I fight hard enough, I can buy a few more years. Hold out until there's a real cure.”

As I spoke, I refilled a bowl of rice for Mrs. Acevedo Sr., whose face had gone ashen, and added some food for her.

“Besides, if I'm gone, who's going to take care of Mom?”

She'd been paralyzed for four years. Every single day, I was the one who bathed her, emptied her bedpan, massaged her legs to keep the muscles from wasting away.

I took her outside in her wheelchair to get some sun whenever I could.

Even half-paralyzed, she lived clean and dignified.

Lily threw herself into my arms, her little voice soft and sweet. She didn't want Mommy to leave. She wanted to stay with me forever.

I held her tight and kissed her plump little cheek.

Those words from last night's message — “abuse me to death” — made my heart shake violently.

I still didn't know who had sent that message.

But I was going to destroy every possible threat to my daughter before it ever had a chance to reach her.

I locked eyes with Phineas and said it like a joke：

“What if I die and you marry some new wife who mistreats my daughter? What then?”

Something flickered in his eyes. His expression went wrong for a split second, but he covered it fast.

“Babe, what are you even saying?”

“I'll sell everything to get you better.”

He reached over and stroked Lily's hair.

“Even if you really……I'll raise her right. I won't remarry.”

I looked at him, long and steady.

High school sweethearts. Ten years together, six of them married. Everyone we knew called us the perfect couple.

He doted on Lily. Always had.

I couldn't believe he would ever hurt her after I was gone.

But I didn't dare bet on it.

Not with my daughter's life.

I had to secure everything for her before my time ran out.

I raised my phone and hit record：

“Good. Then swear it.”

“Prove you're willing to put the house and every cent we have toward my treatment.”

Late-stage cancer meant the treatment costs were staggering. Chemo, radiation, imported drugs, long-term recovery care.

At minimum, they needed to pull together over a million yuan.

And the five-year survival rate was abysmal.

Odds were the money would be gone, I'd be dead anyway, and my family would be buried under a mountain of debt.

To scrape together the medical funds, the whole family pooled what they had. The total came to 190,000.

Mrs. Acevedo Sr. contributed 20,000. I put in 50,000. Phineas, 120,000.

When I saw Phineas's balance, something heavy settled in my chest.

I made 8,000 a month and covered nearly every household expense. Saving 50,000 made sense.

Phineas made 13,000 a month, plus various bonuses. Over six years, that should have been well over a million.

Where had his money gone?

My phone buzzed. Another message from Lily's kids' smartwatch：

“Mom, Dad lied to you.”

“His salary isn't 13,000. It's 28,000.”

My hand froze. I whipped around to look at my daughter.

She was out on the balcony, back to me, playing with her blocks.

I walked over to her, and right in front of her, typed a reply to that number：

“Who are you really?”

“How do you know any of this?”

But the smartwatch on Lily's wrist showed no notification at all.

I was still staring at it, confused, when Gloria accidentally knocked over her water glass.

By the time I'd changed her into dry pants and come back out, a reply had come through on my phone：

“Mom, I'm Lily. Ten years from now.”

My whole body went rigid. My fingers shook as I typed back：

“You……how can you prove that?”

“I like to save my leftover allowance inside Teddy Bear Beibei's tummy.”

My eyes snapped to my daughter on the balcony.

She was sitting there right now, the stuffed bear hugged to her chest.

Pain tore through me so fast my vision blurred red.

Lily's habit of tucking coins into the ripped seam of that bear's little shirt was our secret. Ours alone. Nobody else in the world knew.

She……really was my daughter.

“After they beat me to death, my soul wouldn't move on. I found the smartwatch you gave me when I was little. It can reach you across ten years.”

“Mom, here's what happens next. Dad will suggest listing the house for sale.”

“But he'll price it 50,000 above market. No buyer will touch it.”

“Then Grandma will suddenly get sick and be rushed to the hospital. Dad will claim it wiped out every last cent of the family savings.”

“He'll trick Grandpa and Grandma Winfield into borrowing money everywhere. Massive debt.”

“To pay it back, Grandpa will work himself to death on a construction site. Grandma won't survive the shock. Heart attack.”

I was about to type another question when Phineas noticed my red eyes and pulled me close, his arm around mine：

“Babe, don't cry. If the money's not enough, it's fine. I'll list the house right now.”

I gripped my phone so hard my knuckles ached, and pressed my face into his chest.

“Phineas, is there anything you're keeping from me?”

His heartbeat stuttered.

I drew a long, slow breath.

If the person on the other end of those messages really was Lily, ten years from now.

Then Phineas would really beat my daughter to death.

My nails dug so deep into my palms they ached.

I didn't sleep that night.

I pretended not to notice when Phineas crept into the bathroom at 2 a.m. and spent nearly half an hour whispering into his phone.

First thing the next morning, after dropping Lily off at preschool,

I told him I was going grocery shopping. Instead, I took our documents to the bank and pulled Phineas's transaction records for the past six years.

The printout was thick enough to grip. My hands wouldn't stop shaking.

His salary had climbed from 13,000 to 26,000 a long time ago.

His year-end bonuses had gone from tens of thousands to 150,000 a year.

And starting five years ago, right when I gave birth to Lily,

every single month he'd been wiring between 20,000 and 30,000 to the same account.

Over six years, the transfers totaled $315,000.

Account holder：Celeste Harding.

A woman's name.

And in all those same years, he'd spent less than $30,000 on our family.

I sank down on the curb, legs giving out beneath me, and answered the phone. Phineas's voice hit like a detonation：

“Ivy! Something's happened!”

“Mom had a stroke out of nowhere. She's been rushed to the hospital. Get here now!”

By the time I arrived, Gloria had already been moved into the ICU. They wouldn't let me see her.

Phineas, who never had a hair out of place, looked wrecked. His hair was a mess, his shirt wrinkled.

His eyes were rimmed red, his voice cracking：

“I never imagined Mom would collapse like this.”

He held out a thick stack of payment receipts he'd been crushing in his fist, guilt written all over his face：

“I'm sorry, babe. The money we set aside for your treatment……it's gone.”

The receipts totaled $150,000.

And the first phase of my cancer treatment cost exactly $150,000.

He cried convincingly. Every tear looked real.

But a coldness crept through me from the inside out.

On the listing site, Phineas had priced the house $50,000 above market value. That wasn't a price set by someone desperate to sell.

Gloria's sudden hospitalization had drained nearly all our savings.

Every detail matched what my daughter, ten years from now, had told me.

Then my oncologist called, asking when I could pay for the first phase of treatment.

And it hit me. This hospital wasn't the nearest one to our home.

It was a private hospital ten miles away.

If Gloria had truly suffered a stroke, if her life were actually in danger, bypassing the closest hospital for one that far away would be gambling with her life.

But if this was all a performance to drain our money, how had they gotten the hospital to play along?

“Celeste Harding! Bed fifteen needs the additional meds!”

The name “Celeste Harding” snapped my attention into focus.

A nurse in a surgical mask walked past me. Our eyes met.

In that single instant, I saw it clearly in those unfamiliar eyes: hostility.

Phineas's face suddenly filled my field of vision, blocking my line of sight.

He looked agonized, practically pulling his own hair out：

“What are we going to do? Mom's medication and ICU fees alone are running over ten thousand a day.”

“Our house isn't in a top school district, and we still owe on the mortgage. There's no way we're selling it fast.”

“We've got less than forty thousand left, and you still need treatment.”

“What do we do?”

He pounded his fists against his own head：

“This is my fault. I should've made more money!”

Any other time, my heart would have broken for him.

I would have comforted him, told him it wasn't his fault, the way I always did.

But my hand was pressed hard against the bank statements in my bag showing $315,000 wired to another woman, and all I felt was ice in my veins.

His acting was flawless.

He studied my face, then ventured carefully：

“Babe, maybe……your parents could ask around. Relatives, friends. Borrow a little.”

“Just enough to cover Mom's hospital bills and your treatment for now.”

My stomach dropped.

Another match. Exactly what my daughter had said.

If my parents borrowed the money, the debt would land squarely on their shoulders.

When I didn't respond, Phineas raised his hand to the sky and swore：

“I swear, the second the house sells, I'll pay your parents back. Every cent.”

That earnest face. It was the same expression he'd worn when he proposed, making the same kind of promise：

“I, Phineas Vance, swear I will love Ivy Winfield and only Ivy Winfield for the rest of my life. I will never betray her.”

Everyone considered him the perfect husband. Hardworking, ambitious, devoted to his family.

His social media was nothing but photos of me and Lily.