Sent to the Nursing Home by the Movie Star

The System finally remembered me, but only after my husband and son had left me to rot in a nursing home.
By then, I was just an old woman in a wheelchair, my hair a crown of white.
The System apologized, its digital voice laced with surprise at my state.
[Host, what happened to your points?]
I lifted my tired, clouded eyes and began ticking them off on my gnarled fingers.
A home for our new marriage, funding my husband's career, my son's rare and catastrophic illness…
[You didn't save any for yourself?]
"Oh, I did," I rasped, a dry, bitter laugh catching in my throat. "I saved them for a car accident at 68 that crippled me. For a husband who rekindled an old flame in his twilight years. For a son who couldn't be bothered. And for this… waiting to die in a nursing home."
The System fell silent. Then, it offered compensation.
"In that case," I said, my voice finding a sliver of its old strength, "I want to go back to the beginning. I want to undo it all. And I want every single one of my points back."
I arrived in this world as a little girl with a smile that could light up a room. That’s how I intend to leave it.

1
The autumn sun was a warm blanket as the nurse wheeled me out into the courtyard.
One of the other residents recognized me and turned to whisper to her friends.
"This place must be really high-end. They've even got Julian Jeffords's wife here."
"I heard she has the whole top-floor luxury suite. Three or four nurses just for her."
"Imagine that. A life of luxury when she was young, and now the best nursing home when she's old, while her husband is still out there making blockbuster movies. Some people have all the luck."
A few pairs of eyes drifted over to me—some envious, some indifferent, some cold.
No matter how lucky she is, their looks seemed to say, she ended up in here with the rest of us.
"She's not even that pretty. How did an outsider like her ever marry a star?"
"Back in the day, her husband was the biggest name in Hollywood. The video store shelves were half-filled with his movies."
"Oh, I still have some of his posters! If he ever visits, I'm going to ask for an autograph. A final fangirl dream come true!"
"Shhh… I hear he doesn't visit much."

2
Old minds forget, but the stir I caused every time I came downstairs was a daily ritual. Being Mrs. Julian Jeffords, wife of the legendary actor, made me an endless source of afternoon gossip.
Sometimes, a bolder resident would approach me, calling me "Mrs. Jeffords" with a kind smile. The conversation always revolved around my husband, praising the tireless artist who was still so dedicated to his work, even at his age.
When he wasn't acting, he was pouring his soul into charity.
Julian’s star shone so brightly it cast a benevolent glow on his wife, even from a distance.
I always offered polite, brief responses. A nod here, a quiet word there.
Eventually, their narrative shifted. They began to speculate that our marriage was a sham, that we'd been living separate lives for years. That Julian was only keeping me here out of a sense of duty, a final act of charity for his wife of several decades.
I’d heard countless rumors about us over the years. This time, they’d finally hit the nail on the head. Mostly because I was too tired to pretend anymore.
I’m no actor. I couldn’t face a camera like he did, calmly discussing his wife's health with the practiced ease of a man who knew every detail, yet couldn't be bothered to pick up the phone or spare an hour for a visit.
"I've even donated to your husband's foundation," one woman told me, her eyes gleaming. "The one that builds libraries for children in rural communities."
"And I heard he's now working on a project for children with leukemia! You have such a wonderful husband, Mrs. Jeffords. He's storing up so many blessings for you!"
Yes, his foundation. The one he named after me: The Effy Angel Foundation.
He'd told the press his wife was a kind and gentle soul, an angel who appeared when he was at his lowest, who helped him through the darkest times. He wanted to share that warmth with the world.
"Devoted Husband" was the new role Julian had adopted in his old age. In the glittering, fickle world of Hollywood, a love that lasted a lifetime was something to be celebrated.
The foundation had two directors. He was one. The other was not me.
The woman who traveled with him to remote towns and comforted the needy was someone else entirely.
My son, Aidan, had tried to soothe me.
"Mom, you can't be so petty. Dad is doing all this to build good karma for you. He's an old man, running himself ragged out there. Isn't it all for you?
"Your monthly expenses here—the nurses, the doctors, the special meals—it's not cheap. Dad insists on the best.
"And Isabelle is just helping him because he's working so hard. You know how Dad is, he’s a perfectionist. He only trusts people he knows well.
"Isabelle is a woman who’s been pampered her whole life, and now she's wading through mud in the mountains for him, without a single complaint…
"I guess you can only blame your own failing health."

3
I learned about Isabelle Moreau a month ago.
My son and his family were visiting. My grandson was watching a video on his phone, pointing at the screen and shouting, "Grandpa! Grandpa!"
It was a broadcast from Julian's latest charity event. After wrapping a film, he always threw himself headfirst into philanthropy. It was, in his words, the only time he felt like he was truly contributing to society—when his feet were on the ground, helping others.
In the video, Julian, dapper in a black suit, was graciously introducing the foundation's new co-director to the press.
"Ms. Moreau is a dear friend of many years," he announced. "She has dedicated herself to charity work, and we found we share a common purpose. This new initiative, providing winter clothes and shoes for children in the mountains, was her brilliant idea."
At his cue, Isabelle stepped forward. She wore a stunning, smoky-blue silk dress, a string of lustrous pearls at her throat that highlighted her timeless elegance. Basking in the flash of the cameras and Julian's admiring gaze, she glided to the podium to detail the new project.
"Look, Grandma! Grandpa's doing good things again!" my grandson chirped, shoving the phone in my face.
But all I could see were the deep smile lines crinkling at the corners of Julian's eyes as he watched Isabelle speak.
He praised her meticulous attention to detail, her kindness, her gentle spirit. The children in the mountains, he said, all called her "Grandma Isabelle."
A sharp-eyed reporter noted that Isabelle seemed to have been part of the foundation for quite some time. Her face had appeared in the background of photos from years ago, a touch of silver hair amidst a sea of younger volunteers.
Julian was unruffled. "Yes, Ms. Moreau has been with the team for a long while. She's always been hands-on, never complaining, never pulling rank. She insists on being on the front lines. Her appointment as co-director was a unanimous decision by the entire team."
I looked up at my son. "How long has she been around?"
Aidan's face became a mask of discomfort. He stammered, saying he’d only met her a few times when picking up his father.
"That pearl necklace," I said, my voice quiet. "I have one exactly like it." A piece of that quality wasn't a common coincidence. "The one you gave me three months ago."
Aidan swallowed hard. His wife, seeing his struggle, cut in and laid it all bare.
"Two years ago, for Dad's birthday. He celebrated it with his charity team, and we all went out to dinner. After that, they started meeting more often. She's an old friend of his, after all. A respected elder. And… Isabelle's company is a major partner with…"
I held up a hand, silencing her.
Two years ago. I'd had a bad cold that turned into pneumonia. Julian was away on a charity trip in the mountains and couldn't get back. It was the first time I'd missed his birthday. While I was in the hospital being cared for by nurses, Julian was formally introducing Isabelle to our son.
Isabelle’s family owned one of the country's top corporations—a corporation that had a deep partnership with Aidan's company.
Seeing my silence, Aidan's brow furrowed.
"Mom, it's not that I didn't want to tell you. But what good would it have done? They're just friends. Telling you would only make it seem like they have something to hide."
"Dad was just connecting me with her. Isabelle has helped my business a lot."
"I'm almost forty, Mom. I have a family to support, a career to build. I'm not asking you to help me, but at least… don't get in my way."
As he was leaving with his wife and son, he pushed his glasses up his nose and let out a heavy sigh.
"Besides…"
He paused, his voice dropping.
"Mom, in your condition, what can you do for me anyway? Keeping you here, paying for your care… it costs a fortune every year. Dad is pouring money into his charities, and my company is losing money."
"Mom, when you get old, you have to learn to let things go. You had a superstar for a husband. You've lived a glamorous life. You can't have everything…"

4
Julian and Isabelle attended a gala. A star-struck guest mistook her for his wife, calling her Mrs. Jeffords. Isabelle blushed demurely. Julian, after a moment's pause, laughed it off. "You flatter her," he joked. "Isabelle looks years younger than my wife."
Isabelle was a delicate flower, raised in a greenhouse, untouched by the hardships of the world. Her petals were, of course, more vibrant than a wildflower weathered by decades of wind and rain.
The System watched the clip with me, its synthetic voice full of sympathy.
[Host, you've endured so much.]
I was never supposed to be in this world for so long.
I was a task-runner, forgotten when my System got into a cosmic brawl and lost track of me. My original mission was simple: help Julian Jeffords achieve fame and fortune, then gracefully exit his life.
Julian was handsome, tall, with strong brows and eyes that held a deep, gentle warmth—a look that didn't fit the rugged masculine ideal of that era. Fresh out of acting school, his childhood sweetheart had just married and moved abroad, leaving him broke and struggling.
One bitter winter evening, he was huddled outside a theater, gnawing on a stale piece of bread. He looked up and saw a girl with a beaming smile.
"Hi," I said. "My name is Effy. I'm your biggest fan."
The beginning was hard. Rejection was a constant companion. I worked three jobs to keep his dream alive. Not because I pitied him, but because his success was my only ticket home.
After five years of sharing scraps and washing dishes in restaurant kitchens, my hands covered in a roadmap of tiny scars, he finally landed a supporting role.
I stood outside the movie theater in my stained kitchen apron, staring at the poster. Julian’s face was tiny, tucked away in a corner, completely overshadowed by the stunning lead actors. But I didn't care. I leaned in, tracing the familiar lines of his face with my finger, smiling like an idiot.
The storm clouds had finally parted. The rest of our life was supposed to be sunshine.
Julian, the unknown supporting actor, stole the show. He became an overnight sensation.
But I never received the "mission complete" notification. Instead, at his victory party, Julian proposed.

5
After my fifth request to return home was denied, the System went dark.
That’s when I knew. I had been abandoned.
Julian, holding a bouquet of roses and wearing a brand-new suit, pulled me into the spotlight for the first time. He dropped to one knee.
"Effy," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "Thank you for everything."
"Will you marry me?"
He was a rising star. Announcing a girlfriend was one thing, but proposing was career suicide. His fanbase was made up of young women who adored his looks. An act like this could have buried him, sending him right back to that cold, tiny apartment and stale bread.
That night, a fan in the crowd broke down, screaming. She lost her mind, lunging forward, trying to attack me.
Reeling from the realization that I was trapped here, I was thrust into chaos. Julian wrapped his arms around me, shielding me. I watched, numb, as the frantic fan smashed a beer bottle over his head.
"Effy…" he whispered, blood trickling down his temple.
"Don't be afraid…"
Thinking back on it now, the memory of the man who held me so tightly, even when faced with violence and uncertainty, feels hazy, distant.
Maybe it's because he hasn't called me by my name in years.
Or maybe it's because the only place I ever see him now is on a screen.

6
Pulling some strings, the System did some digging on Julian for me.
[I have to tell you this, Host. Your and Julian's joint assets are almost gone.]
[A large portion went to your son's startup. The rest was poured into the foundation.]
[However, it appears the foundation is now primarily funded by public donations. The account that Julian controls, his personal wealth, hasn't contributed to the foundation in a very long time.]
Over the years, Julian's "devoted husband" persona had made The Effy Angel Foundation incredibly popular. Donations from corporations and the public now more than covered all its expenses.
Julian no longer had to spend a dime of his own money.
Ever since I got sick, he had taken full control of our finances.
[I don't know what he's so afraid of you finding out,] the System added. [It's not like you have much money left to your name anyway.]
I managed a weak, bitter smile. I was past the point of wanting to dig any deeper. The bond we shared as husband and wife had been discarded by him long ago, without a second thought.
He and Isabelle had been in contact, on and off, for twenty years. When her husband passed away, he personally flew overseas to bring her back. It was only after my health failed that he brought their relationship out into the open.
"I want to heal my legs first," I said.
Because my points had been spent in increments over many years, each request to reclaim them would take time. The System agreed.
In one week, I would walk again.
"But…"
As an equal exchange, I had to return the value of what I was reclaiming. It wasn't a small price.
I thought for a moment.
"My legs were injured because of him. The price should come from him," I decided. "Take his lifetime of achievements. His reputation as a screen legend. Is that enough?"
After all, his fame was something I'd bought for him with my points in the first place. That reckless proposal should have gotten him blacklisted by the studios. I spent a fortune in points to spin the narrative, turning a career-ending move into a testament to his romantic, daring charm.
Two years ago, on a snowy night, Julian was injured on a film set. I rushed out of the house, driving frantically, and skidded on a patch of ice.
His injury was minor. I ended up in the ICU for three days and three nights. My son told me that while I was fighting for my life, his father never left the waiting room.
Julian, a man obsessed with his appearance, let his hair go gray in those three days. He looked like any other terrified old man in the hospital, hunched over in a plastic chair, his eyes hollow and vacant.
But there was a hand on his, a soft voice whispering comfort in his ear.
What I didn't know then was that Isabelle had been there with him for all three of those days.
He had trembled, turning his hand to grip hers tightly.
"Thank God you're here," he'd whispered. "Thank God…"
They say hardship strengthens a bond. I just never imagined it would be their bond that was strengthened.
All it cost was my accident. A pair of legs that would never walk again.
"It's settled," I said, my voice firm.
"His lifetime of honor for a pair of legs. It’s a fair trade."
After all, I was the one who gave it to him in the first place.

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