The Day I Sold My Husband

My husband, Captain Mark Olsen, just returned from deployment, his uniform sharp, his smile fake. I looked at him and said, flatly, "We need to separate." It was the only way to escape the nightmare that haunted me. My five-year-old son, Leo, dead. Because of Mark. Because of his sister-in-law, Jessica. That future, that premonition, could not happen. Mark poured all our money into Jessica's lavish spending, while our own son, Leo, wore hand-me-downs. He'd promise Leo the world, then cancel for Jessica's 'emergencies.' The final straw: Leo burnt with fever, but Mark raced off to tend to Jessica's perfectly healthy daughter. My son lay dying, just like in the terrifying vision, while Mark, a military hero to others, coldly dismissed my screams. How could a father abandon his own flesh and blood for a woman who manipulated his every move? The injustice, the rage, burned a hole inside me. But then, Jessica, emboldened, asked Mark to father *her* next child. She wasn't just taking my husband's money; she wanted his legacy. I saw my opportunity, a twisted, desperate path to freedom. I wouldn't just leave. I would sell him. For a cold, hard sum, I would hand over my husband, giving Jessica what she desired and freeing myself and Leo forever. This was my vow. My future, and my son's, depended on it.