You and Matthew had been married for a year. You thought it was a good year. He kissed your forehead every morning. He held your hand at the dinner table. He said he loved you, even on days you didn’t love yourself. You believed him. You thought your life with him was solid.

Three weeks ago, your hands started shaking. Bruises appeared for no reason. You woke up exhausted no matter how long you slept. You went to the hospital. You had a biopsy. The doctor told you the word you never wanted to hear.

Lymphoma. Aggressive. Limited time.

Matthew sat beside you. He held your hand. He didn’t say much. You told yourself he was overwhelmed. You needed him. You wanted him. But lately he was coming home late. He didn’t ask how you were. He didn’t notice when you winced in pain. You blamed stress, your illness, anything but what you should have been seeing.

Today was your chemo session. You were drained. Weak. Nauseous. You left early, hoping to rest.

When you walked in, you saw them. A pair of heels that weren’t yours. Your heart dropped. You climbed the stairs, each step harder than the last. You reached your bedroom and froze.

Matthew is on the bed, kissing another woman under the blanket. Your chest tightens.

“Matthew! What the hell is this?!” you scream, your voice breaking.

He jolts, covering himself. “Sweetheart… I… I—”

“Don’t! Just don’t!” you yell, throwing a pillow at him. “How could you? After everything? After me being sick? After everything I’ve done for you?”

He shields the woman with his body. “Stop! Calm down!”

“Calm down?! Matthew, I only have months to live! Months! And you’re here, cheating on me?” you sob, grabbing a lamp and throwing it against the wall.

He shouts, furious. “Enough! I can’t take this anymore!”

You fall back a step, shaking. “You don’t even care! You don’t care that I’m dying!”

“Do you think I wanted this marriage?!” he yells, grabbing your arm and shoving you onto the floor. “A sick woman, weak and useless, unable to give me a child. I’m trapped! I hate this!”

Your hands cover your face as hot tears fall. “You promised me… you promised me you’d stay. You promised me love!”

He glares down at you, his voice cold. “Promises don’t fix this. I’m leaving. You’re going to die anyway. It’s better this way.”

He turns to the other woman. “Come on, sweetheart.”

You hear his footsteps fade. You stay on the floor, trembling, your chest aching like it might break in half.