Chapter 3 - The Fundraiser I Never Agreed To
Three days after the hospital incident, I learned that my husband had raised almost ninety-five thousand dollars in my name.
I learned it from a woman I'd never met.
Her name was Bethany Collins.
She was a kindergarten teacher whose mother had survived ovarian cancer.
Bethany contacted June after reading a brief message about my hospitalization in our neighborhood's community group.
She wrote:
Please tell Natalie we're all praying for her. I hope the fundraiser money has helped with her treatment.
June read it aloud while I was sitting on her couch.
I frowned.
“What fundraiser?”
She looked at me.
“You don't know?”
“No.”
June opened the link Bethany had sent.
There was my face.
A photograph taken at Lucy's seventh birthday party.
I was wearing a yellow sundress.
My hair was long.
My arms were wrapped around our daughter as she blew out the candles.
Across the top of the page were the words:
HELP NATALIE FIGHT FOR HER LIFE.
Below the photograph was a message supposedly written by Grant.
My beautiful wife is battling aggressive cancer. We are facing overwhelming medical expenses, and every donation will help us keep our family together.
I stared at the screen.
The fundraiser had collected $94,612.
I couldn't breathe.
“June.”
She looked up.
“Our insurance covered most of the surgery.”
“I know.”
“And we received assistance for the remaining hospital expenses.”
“I know.”
I scrolled through the donations.
Fifty dollars.
Two hundred.
A thousand.
Messages from strangers.
Stay strong, Natalie.
My wife went through this. You can do it.
Sending love to your little girl.
I recognized one name.
Mrs. Peterson.
Lucy's second-grade teacher.
She had donated five hundred dollars.
My throat closed.
“Grant never told me.”
June sat beside me.
“Maybe he intended to surprise you.”
I looked at her.
She stopped.
“Sorry.”
“No. That's what I would've said too.”
I kept scrolling.
Grant had posted updates supposedly written with my approval.
One claimed I was unable to work because of chemotherapy.
But I hadn't started chemotherapy.
My treatment team was still discussing the next steps.
Another claimed we'd been forced to sell our second car.
We hadn't.
Grant drove it every day.
The last update showed a photograph of my hospital bracelet.
I remembered him taking that picture.
He said he wanted to remember the day I survived surgery.
I had believed him.
June closed the laptop.
“We need help.”
I nodded.
The following morning, we met with an attorney named Tessa Park.
Tessa specialized in family and civil litigation.
She had short black hair, sharp eyes, and the kind of calm voice that made people stop talking long enough to think.
She listened as I described the kitchen incident, the messages, and the fundraiser.
Then she asked, “Do you have independent access to your personal finances?”
“Not all of them.”
“Why?”
“Grant handles the banking.”
“Does he have your passwords?”
“Yes.”
“Does he have access to your email?”
I hesitated.
“Yes.”
Tessa made a note.
“We need to secure your accounts and preserve any evidence of unauthorized activity. We'll also address the custody threats.”
I looked down.
“He says I'm too sick to raise Lucy.”
Tessa leaned forward.
“Having cancer does not, by itself, determine whether someone can parent. We'll focus on the child's actual needs and the evidence.”
I nodded.
“What about the fundraiser?”
“We'll contact the platform through the appropriate reporting process and request an accounting. If donations were obtained through false representations or misused, there may be legal consequences.”
“Can we return the money?”
“We need to find out where it is first.”
That was the question.
Where was almost ninety-five thousand dollars?
Over the next forty-eight hours, I secured my email and other accounts with help from June and Tessa.
I discovered login notifications from devices I didn't recognize.
I found deleted messages from friends.
And buried in an old email folder, I found a receipt for a transfer from the fundraiser's designated account.
The recipient was a company called CareBridge Partners LLC.
The amount was $18,500.
The description read:
Patient support coordination.
I had never heard of CareBridge Partners.
Tessa arranged for a financial investigator to review the documents we could lawfully obtain.
The next day, he called with preliminary findings.
CareBridge had been formed eight months earlier.
Its registered business address was a small office outside Philadelphia.
And its listed managers were two people.
Grant Brooks.
And a woman named Evelyn Caldwell.
I frowned.
“Who is Evelyn Caldwell?”
June stopped moving.
I looked at her.
“June?”
She sat down slowly.
“Natalie, you need to see something.”
She opened her phone and found a photograph from a local charity event.
Grant stood beside a tall brunette wearing a silver evening dress.
His hand rested on her lower back.
The photograph had been posted three months before my diagnosis.
Underneath it was a caption:
CareBridge founders Grant Brooks and Evelyn Caldwell celebrate another successful year.
I stared at the photograph.
Grant had told me Evelyn was his business consultant.
He said she handled insurance paperwork.
He said she was helping us organize my medical expenses.
I looked closer.
She was wearing a necklace.
A small gold heart.
I knew that necklace.
It was the one I'd found in Grant's car six months earlier.
He told me it belonged to a client.
I turned toward June.
“That's not his consultant.”
My sister didn't answer.
I looked at the photograph again.
Then another memory surfaced.
Three weeks before my surgery, Grant had asked me to sign a document.
He said it authorized him to communicate with my insurance company.
I was exhausted.
I barely read it.
But I remembered one name printed near the bottom.
CareBridge Partners.
I looked at Tessa.
“I think he made me sign something.”
“What kind of document?”
“I don't know.”
She reached for her notebook.
“Tell me everything you remember.”
I closed my eyes.
Then I remembered something else.
The night before surgery, Grant had leaned over me and said:
“After tomorrow, sweetheart, you won't have to worry about anything. I'll make all the decisions.”
May you like
At the time, I'd thought he was trying to comfort me.
Now I wondered whether he'd meant every word.
