Returning home after my last chemotherapy session, I dropped my bag inside and breathed in the quiet—only to freeze when I heard laughter in the living room. I rounded the corner and saw him. My husband. Kissing her. Not just a peck—an embrace that burned through me.
I was halfway through treatment for months, and this was the welcome I got. Without a word, I packed essentials—including my heart—and left. Didn’t wait for explanations or apologies. Didn’t even look back.
Twenty-four hours later, my phone buzzed. It was him. “Please come home. I was wrong. I love you. You’re my family. I’m begging you.” My heartbeat thundered. I sat in silent shock. Had this world turned upside down?
He called again—more frantic. I felt every vaccine drip of anger and sorrow. But I was still the patient, still healing, and I realized something: I deserved better than someone who betrayed me in my weakest moment.
So instead of walking back through that door, I stayed. On the phone, I finally spoke. “You hurt me more than you know,” I said, voice trembling. “I need time—real time—to think what healing looks like for us.”
And in that moment, I took back my power—one brave, determined breath at a time.
