From Ali: “Okay, but warning, this really IS the worst of the worst Valentine's Day story. Seriously.
My husband, a professional athlete from Sydney, Australia, and I were married in September 2006 and we lived in NYC. In the summer of 2007, I gave birth to our son, Chille. He had a heart defect and endured two open heart surgeries before he was 8 months old. We lived in the ICU for months on end. On Valentine's Day, 2008 my son was in the Emergency Room, hanging on for dear life and in critical condition. My husband was out of town for a business trip and was returning on Valentine's Day. I had no cell phone reception and just left a message telling him that when he returned, to please just rush in to the hospital, that they were admitting our son to the ICU. Before our son was transferred, I stepped outside to check to see if he had called, if he was back in town, yet. There was one message on my phone. It was from my husband. He message said ‘Listen carefully. I'm in Sydney. I can't take it anymore.’ When I returned to our apartment later that day to take a shower and get some fresh clothes for the hospital, I saw just what ‘I can't take it anymore’ meant. Every trace of him was gone, every drawer emptied, and every bank account, including our son's $30,000 college fund was drained. I learned he stopped paying the rent and I had no money and a baby in critical condition laying in the children's hospital. On Valentine's Day, my husband went out for a pack of cigarettes and never returned. Only he didn't smoke and apparently the pack was in Australia. Oh yeah, and one last thing. My birthday is Febuary 15.”
This is truly horrible. So horrible in fact that we had to wonder if it was made up—but who would send us a story this messed up?
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