Burning with fever, too weak to move, I begged my husband Ryan to come home and help with our baby. He said he was on his way—but he never showed. An hour later, I texted again. “Stuck in traffic,” he said. But we lived in a small town. There was no traffic.
Desperate, I messaged his coworker. The reply came quickly: Ryan’s still here. My heart sank. He had lied.
Barely able to breathe, I called our neighbor, Mrs. Thompson. She rushed over and took me to the hospital. I was in septic shock from a severe kidney infection. The doctor said another few hours, and it could’ve been too late.
Ryan showed up two hours later, acting like it was no big deal. “You should’ve told me it was serious,” he said. I had—I begged him.
In the hospital, I felt nothing. Not anger, not sadness—just emptiness. And clarity. When I got home, I watched him scroll on his phone like nothing happened. That night, while he slept, I checked his phone.
Messages to other women. Tinder. No mention of me being sick to his friends or boss. Just memes and flirtations while I nearly died.
I made an appointment with a divorce lawyer the next morning.
He didn’t know. I didn’t tell him. I smiled, nodded, acted normal. But inside, I had already left.
And when I finally do, I won’t look back.