When my pretentious husband Alistair demanded an immediate divorce—leaving behind our millions to spend his “final three months of life” with his spiritual soulmate—I quietly signed the papers without revealing that his terminal cancer diagnosis was a hospital mistake. Eager to embrace his tragic romance, he spent lavishly on credit, only to discover ninety days later that he was perfectly healthy, broke, and drowning in massive debt.
THE POET’S DELUSION CHAPTER 1: THE TALE OF TWO DIAGNOSES The doctor at St Thomas’ Hospital had barely finished apologizing for the clerical mix-up before I rushed out, clutching the…