My Ex-husband Threw Us Out During A Storm Because Our Son Was A “defective Product.” 18 Years Later, He Crawled Into My Son’s Hospital Begging For His Life. Who Is The “defective” One Now?

The Red Folder

I stepped out of the elevator on the third floor. This floor was much quieter than the bustling main lobby. This was the administrative and medical records center.

White fluorescent lights illuminated a long hallway flanked by metal shelves and frosted glass doors. The air here was cool and dry, smelling of old paper and printer ink.

My destination was the room at the end of the hall: the head of medical administration’s office. But before I got there, a young nurse in a light blue uniform stopped me.

It was Sarah, one of our most trusted people in the hospital. Her face looked tense. She clutched a thick red folder to her chest.

“Good morning, Mrs. Vance,” she greeted me politely. She dipped her head slightly, a sign of genuine respect, not fear.

“Morning, Sarah,” I replied. “Is the file ready?”

Sarah nodded quickly. She looked left and right, making sure no one else could hear our conversation.

“Yes, ma’am. I just picked it up from registration. The patient’s data was just entered 10 minutes ago.”

I held out my hand. Sarah handed me the red folder. It felt heavy, as heavy as the sins of its owner.

“Thank you, Sarah. You can go back to your work. Don’t let anyone know I have this file,” I ordered.

“Of course, ma’am, but there’s one more thing,” Sarah said hesitantly.

“What is it?”

“This patient, a Mr. Mark Peterson.” Sarah said the name with a note of dislike. “He caused a scene at the registration desk earlier. He yelled at our staff because he thought the process was too slow. He claimed to know the hospital director, but there was no record of him in our VIP system.”

I smirked. Old habits die hard. Mark always thought he was a king even when he had no castle.

“Let it be, Sarah. Consider it some pre-show entertainment. Go back to your post.”

Sarah nodded and hurried away. I took the folder into an empty small conference room. I sat in a swivel chair and placed the folder on the gleaming glass table.

My heart was pounding, not with fear, but with anticipation. This was the moment I had been waiting for, the moment I could look into the guts of my ex-husband’s life without him knowing.

I opened the folder slowly. The first page was his personal data.

Name: Mark Peterson. Age: 48. Occupation: Self-employed. Address: Listed as unstable, a rented unit in a run-down part of town.

I knew that area. It was a flood-prone neighborhood, a world away from the lavish house he used to boast about when he kicked me out.

My eyes moved to the second page: Medical history. I read line by line the diagnosis from the ER doctor who had seen him last week before referring him here.

The doctor’s handwriting was cursive, but I was used to reading it.

Primary diagnosis: Uncontrolled type 2 diabetes mellitus. Complications: Diabetic nephropathy, End-stage renal disease, Stage 5 kidney failure. Physical condition: Gangrenous wound on the left foot, necrosis of the fourth and fifth toes.

I was stunned. Stage 5 kidney failure. That meant his kidneys had completely shut down. Toxins were building up in his blood every second.

The only way to survive was with lifelong dialysis or a kidney transplant. And seeing the condition of his rotting foot, he was also at risk of amputation. What a deadly irony.

He used to mock my son for his imperfect leg. He called Leo “the one with the twisted leg.” He was disgusted by the way my son walked. Now his own foot was rotting. His own foot was eating away at his life.

God has a dark but fair sense of humor. Karma doesn’t arrive by express mail, but it always arrives on time.

I turned to the next page. This was the most interesting part, the financial section. There, written in big red ink: No insurance. ACA plan inactive.

I frowned. Mark used to work for a large corporation. He always bragged about his premium health insurance. Why did he have no coverage now?

I read the additional notes from the administrative staff below.

Patient has defaulted on insurance premiums for 5 years. Private insurance policy was terminated due to lapse. Patient claims to have no cash funds for inpatient deposit.

I leaned back in my chair. The bigger picture was becoming clear. Mark was broke. Utterly and completely broke.

Where did all the money go? Where did the marital assets go, the ones that should have been mine and Leo’s but that he stole completely? The answer was in the social status attachment.

Guarantor: Bella (wife). Interview notes: Patient’s wife refuses to sign the personal guarantee of payment. Patient’s wife states that the house and car were sold last month and the money was used to pay off failed business debts.

I let out a soft, dry laugh. Bella, the woman who once arrived in a luxury car with an expensive umbrella, now wouldn’t even vouch for her husband. She had bled Mark dry.

The supply company Mark was so proud of must have gone bankrupt. The money from the sale of our old house must have been squandered on their lifestyle.

Now that Mark was sick and needed money, Bella was starting to wash her hands of him. That woman only ever loved Mark’s money, not the man. Mark had left a diamond for a rock, and now that rock was crushing him.

My eyes fell on a form tucked into the very back: a charity care application, a financial hardship waiver. Mark was requesting that the hospital provide a special discount or social fund assistance for his dialysis treatment.

He wanted pity. He wanted to be a parasite in my hospital. At the bottom of the form was an empty approval section.

It read: “Reviewed and approved by head of the department of internal medicine.”

I stared at that blank space for a long time. This was it. This was the weapon. Mark couldn’t get treatment here without that signature.

He had no money. He had no insurance. All he had was this application. His life and death depended on the signature of the department head, and he had no idea who the department head at this hospital was.

I closed the red folder with a satisfying thud. I had found his weak point, not just his physical illness, but his bankruptcy and his desperation. He was on the edge of a cliff. One small push, and he would fall into the abyss.

I stood up, grabbed the folder, and walked out of the room. My steps felt light. I felt like a general who had just obtained a map of the enemy’s headquarters.

I imagined Mark’s face when he would learn the truth. I imagined his face when he realized that the person holding the pen to sign his fate was the person he once called trash.