Your cancer can wait — Mom’s got a big birthday bash to celebrate…

Emily set the paper down, unable to read more. Her personal tragedy was now public fodder, a scandal for strangers to dissect over coffee. It was painful, but maybe the uproar could help her get treatment. “That’s not all,” Sarah sat on the bed. “Remember I mentioned Dr. Harrison? He called our chief of staff this morning. Wants to meet you. In person.”

Emily’s heart skipped. “Why?” “Not sure,” Sarah smiled enigmatically. “But word is, the National Cancer Center’s interested in your case. There might be a chance for a free surgery through a government program.” Tears welled in Emily’s eyes. Could something good come from this awful betrayal? “When’s he coming?” “This afternoon,” Sarah replied. “So eat, freshen up, and… hang in there. Miracles happen, Emily. Especially for those who deserve them.”

Margaret woke with a pounding head. The birthday was a triumph, but the champagne had taken its toll. She reached for her phone, expecting gushing messages from guests. Instead, she found a shock. Dozens of texts with threats, curses, insults. Links to articles and posts calling her a monster, a heartless egoist. “What’s going on?” she muttered, scrolling frantically. Then she saw her photo from the party on every local paper’s front page, alongside Emily’s story—the money for her treatment spent on the celebration. The story now known to the whole city.

Margaret felt the ground slip away. Who did this? Who dared paint her as the villain? Surely Emily. Or her friends. Out for revenge, ruining a respectable woman’s name. She dialed James, but his phone was off. After their fight, he hadn’t come home, which worried her more. Could Jimmy really turn against her? No, impossible. He was always on her side. Always.

A doorbell interrupted her panic. “Jimmy!” she rushed to open it, smoothing her hair, ready to embrace her repentant son. But it wasn’t James. It was her elderly downstairs neighbor, Mrs. Clara. “Hello, Margaret,” Clara said coldly. “About your flood.” “What flood?” Margaret frowned. “You don’t know?” Clara raised her eyebrows. “Water’s pouring from your place. My ceiling’s ruined. You need a plumber, now.”

Margaret turned and noticed water trickling down the hallway wall, pooling on the floor. “Oh my God!” she gasped. “Must be a pipe. Call the emergency service, quick!” While Clara phoned, Margaret raced around, searching for the leak. The bathroom and kitchen were dry, but water kept coming, now soaking the living room carpet. “Must be upstairs,” Clara suggested. “Go knock.” But the water came from behind a hallway cabinet, an exterior wall—no neighbors above.

When the plumbers arrived, they pinpointed the issue: a burst pipe in the wall. Age, corrosion, poor maintenance—any number of causes. The result was clear: Margaret’s apartment was flooded, ruining carpet, wallpaper, furniture. The water had reached Clara’s place, sparking her fury. “You’ll have to pay for the damage,” Clara declared, eyeing her ruined ceiling. “It’s your pipe.”

Margaret stood amid the chaos, at a loss. Where would she get money for repairs? Her pension was small, savings gone on the party, James unemployed. Her eyes fell on the diamond necklace—her pride, the envy of her friends. A heavy dread gripped her. Would she have to sell her treasured gift? Was even this being taken by her cursed daughter-in-law?

A sharp pain stabbed her chest. Margaret clutched her heart, vision darkening. She managed a weak “Help!” before collapsing onto the wet floor, caught by Clara.

James sat in the investigator’s office, staring at documents spread before him. Statements from donors who gave money for Emily’s treatment. Bank records from the fundraising account. A screenshot of the crowdfunding page stating the goal: “For Emily Thompson’s cancer surgery.” “You understand this could be considered fraud?” asked Investigator Carter. “People donated for a specific purpose, and you used the funds for something else.”

James nodded slowly. “I understand. But I didn’t mean to deceive anyone. I planned to pay it back. Get a loan, borrow.” “Good intentions, Mr. Thompson,” Carter shook his head. “You know what they say about the road to hell, right?” James lowered his gaze. What could he say? That he was seduced by a flashy party? That he couldn’t say no to his mother? That he was too weak to do the right thing? “I’m guilty,” he said simply. “And I’m ready to face the consequences.”

Carter leaned back, studying him. “You know, Thompson, most people in your shoes make excuses. Blame circumstances, their mother, temporary insanity. But you admit guilt right away. That’s… unusual.” “I’m tired of lying,” James met his eyes. “To myself, my wife, everyone. I made a mistake, an unforgivable one. If I have to answer for it legally, I’m ready.”..