Paralyzed for Six Years, My Wife Sent Me to Have My Kidney Removed

On the eve of the photography competition, Aiden, the impoverished student I’d sponsored for ten years, sent me the best-configured camera lens. He messaged me, wishing me good luck.

Touched, I accepted, already planning to buy him a gift with my prize money.

But then, on the day of the competition, the lens burst into flames, exploding.

I was burnt beyond recognition, my body charred, and rushed to the ICU.

My saintly wife cried her eyes out, almost blind with grief, promising to use her entire medical expertise to save me.

“Caleb, I only developed feelings for you. If something happens to you, I wouldn’t want to live!”

I clung to life, but became a vegetable, with only my hearing and sense of pain remaining.

Even then, I was incredibly grateful to my wife.

Until one day, I overheard her conversation with a nurse—

“Caleb’s on his way out anyway. Once he dies, using his kidney to extend Aiden’s life wouldn’t be murder.”

Each cut was a fresh, agonizing stab, the pain searing deep into my bones.

But after I was cremated, my wife went mad.