09/14/2025
I came home after my third round of chemo, my body weak, my legs barely carrying me up the steps. My husband had promised—sworn—he'd take care of me, make sure I had nothing to worry about.
But the second I opened the door, I froze. Romantic music floated through the house, soft and slow—the very kind we used to dance to together in better days.
And then I saw them.
On the couch in the living room. My couch. He was lying there with her, tangled together, kissing like teenagers who thought the world didn't exist.
"Leo, what is..." my voice cracked.
When he finally noticed me standing there—frail, exhausted, still in my hospital wristband—he didn't even look ashamed. He smirked, like I was nothing but an inconvenience.
"Didn't expect you back so early. Since you're here, let's make this simple—you've got ONE HOUR to pack your things and leave."
My stomach dropped. "But you promised to take care of me. You swore."
"I'm done babysitting a sick wife. I didn't marry you to play nurse. I married you to live my life. And I refuse to waste another minute on you."
His words sliced through me like a knife. My knees nearly gave out. Tears blurred my vision. And then—his mistress's laugh. Loud, cruel, echoing through the room. Like my pain was her entertainment.
They thought they'd won. They thought they'd broken me.
But what neither of them knew was that less than twenty-four hours later, HE would be the one crawling to me on his knees in a hotel lobby, begging for forgiveness. Because in that exact moment, when he spat those ugly words at me, I already knew exactly how to destroy the one thing he cared about most. ⬇️
