08/23/2025
After chemo session number three, I arrived home worn out, barely able to push myself up the stairs. My husband had declared—sworn—that he would watch over me, letting nothing trouble me. Yet the second I turned the handle, I was floored. Soft romantic music floated in the air—the kind from the days when we would dance around the living room. There they were. On my living room sofa. My sofa. He was entangled with her, kissing her as if no other reality existed. “Leo, what is…” My voice threatened to crumble. When he turned and saw me—emaciated, exhausted, my hospital wristband visible—he looked anything but ashamed. There was a smirk, as though my presence was merely irritating. “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.” I felt like I’d been gutted. “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.” Those words cut me deeply. My body was weak. Tears masked my vision. Then, his mistress let out a piercing, cruel laugh that ricocheted around the room—my pain was comedy to her. They assumed they’d left me in pieces. Yet less than a day later, HE would be the one on his knees at a hotel lobby, seeking my forgiveness. For at that moment when he spat those words, I already saw the way to destroy the thing he loved most.⬇️