I never thought I’d end up like this. Lying in bed, burning up with fever, barely able to lift my head. My body felt like it wasn’t mine anymore—weak, shaky, useless.
My one-year-old daughter, Lily, sat on the floor beside the bed, playing with a stuffed rabbit. Every so often, she’d look up at me with wide, curious eyes, babbling softly. She didn’t understand that something was wrong.
I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to will away the nausea. This wasn’t just a cold. It was something worse.
I reached for my phone, hands trembling, and called my husband, Ryan. He picked up after a few rings.
“Hey, babe,” he said, distracted. I could hear voices in the background. He was at work.
“Ryan,” I whispered, throat dry. “I feel awful. I need you to come home.”
He hesitated. “What’s going on?”
“I can’t take care of Lily,” I said. “I can’t even sit up. Please.”
He sighed. “Alright, I’ll finish up here and head out soon.”
“How soon?”
“Give me, like, twenty minutes,” he said. “I just need to wrap something up.”
Relief washed over me. “Okay. Thank you.”
I hung up and closed my eyes. Just twenty minutes. I could make it.
An hour passed.
I kept checking my phone, but no new messages. My fever had climbed higher, my body shaking with chills. Lily had started fussing, hungry and tired. I struggled to sit up, but my arms gave out. My head spun, and I collapsed back onto the bed.
I grabbed my phone with numb fingers and texted Ryan.
Me: Are you close?
A minute later, my phone buzzed.
Ryan: Just finishing up. Leaving soon.
I stared at the message. I wanted to believe him, but something felt off.
Another thirty minutes. My hands shook as I typed again.
Me: I really need you here. Now.
Ryan: Stuck in traffic. Almost home.
Traffic? We lived in a small town. The drive from his office to our house took fifteen minutes.
I tried to sit up again. My stomach lurched. I barely managed to roll over before vomiting onto the floor. Lily started crying. I couldn’t even comfort her. My whole body ached.
I fumbled for my phone, heart pounding. I needed help.
Ryan had a close friend at work—his coworker, Mike. I didn’t usually text him, but I had no choice.
Me: Hey, is Ryan still at work?
Mike’s reply came almost instantly.
Mike: Yeah, he’s still here. Why?
I felt a cold rush that had nothing to do with my fever.
I stared at the message, my vision blurring. He hadn’t left. He never left.
Lies.
I couldn’t think straight. My skin burned. My head pounded. I was too sick to be angry, but I was scared.
I called Ryan. He didn’t answer. I called again. Voicemail. I needed help. Now.
I scrolled through my contacts, fingers clumsy and weak, and stopped at Mrs. Thompson. Our neighbor. I pressed call.
She answered on the second ring. “Hello?”
“M-Mrs. Thompson,” I croaked. “I need help.”
“What’s wrong, dear?” Her voice was sharp with concern.
“I’m really sick,” I whispered. “Ryan’s not home. I need to go to the hospital.”
“I’m coming,” she said. No hesitation. “Hold tight.”
I let the phone slip from my fingers.
Lily’s cries filled the room.
I closed my eyes and waited.
The next thing I remembered was that the hospital lights were too bright. I squinted against them as a nurse adjusted the IV in my arm. My whole body ached, my skin clammy with sweat. I heard the steady beeping of a monitor somewhere nearby.
“You gave us a scare,” a doctor said, standing at the foot of my bed. He was middle-aged, with tired eyes. “Severe kidney infection. Your heart rate was dangerously high when you arrived.”
I swallowed hard. “How bad was it?” My voice was barely above a whisper.
I turned my head toward the window, trying to process his words. Another few hours.
Mrs. Thompson saved me. Not Ryan.
Two hours later, he finally showed up.
I heard him before I saw him—his voice in the hallway, casually chatting with a nurse. Then the door swung open, and there he was.
“Hey,” he said, stepping inside. He had a coffee in one hand, his phone in the other. He looked… normal. Like he had just come from running errands, not like a man who almost lost his wife.
I didn’t have the strength to be angry.
“You okay?” he asked, standing at the edge of my bed.
I just stared at him. My throat felt tight.
He sighed. “I didn’t realize it was that bad. You should’ve told me.”
Something inside me cracked.
“I did,” I whispered. My voice was hoarse, my mouth dry. “I begged you.”
He rubbed the back of his neck. “I thought you were exaggerating. I was in the middle of something at work. You know how it is.”
I closed my eyes.
I didn’t have the energy for this conversation.
I spent the next two days in the hospital. My parents drove four hours to pick up Lily. My mom held my hand, her eyes filled with worry. My dad barely spoke to Ryan.
Ryan came to visit once. He brought me a bottle of water and a granola bar, like I was recovering from the flu, not a life-threatening infection.
“You’ll be home soon,” he said. “This was just a fluke, you know? One of those things.”
I didn’t answer.
By the time I was discharged, I wasn’t angry anymore. I wasn’t even sad. I just felt… empty. On the drive home, Ryan kept talking about work, traffic, some funny video he saw. He didn’t ask how I felt.
I barely listened. I kept thinking about the doctor’s words.
Another few hours.
Would he have cared then? Would he have rushed home if I was already unconscious? Or would I have been just another inconvenience?
That night, I lay in bed staring at the ceiling while he scrolled through his phone beside me.
I thought about all the little things I’d ignored.
What if it had been Lily? What if our daughter had been the one sick, crying, needing him? Would he have lied to her too? Would he have told her he was “on his way” while he sat at work, doing nothing?
I turned my head and looked at him, really looked at him. He didn’t notice. He was too busy watching videos, chuckling to himself. I knew, in that moment, I didn’t love him anymore.
And I wasn’t going to stay.
That night, after Ryan fell asleep, I took his phone. I had never done this before, never felt the need to, but something inside me whispered, Check.
My hands trembled as I swiped up and unlocked it. He had never changed his passcode, never thought he had to.
The first thing I saw was his messages. There were multiple conversations with women whose names I didn’t recognize, filled with winking emojis, inside jokes, and compliments he had never given me.
Can’t wait to see you again. Last night was amazing. You looked so good today.
A dull ringing filled my ears as I scrolled. This wasn’t just meaningless flirting. This was ongoing. Familiar. Personal.
I forced myself to keep looking. His apps.
Tinder.
I checked his conversations with his friends. There was no mention of me being sick, no sign of worry, no acknowledgment that I had nearly died. Instead, there were TikToks, memes, and jokes—proof that while I was hooked up to an IV, he had been laughing with his buddies.
Then came the final blow. His work emails.
I searched for anything about him requesting time off, any record that he had even told his boss I was sick. There was nothing. No request. No denial. The entire excuse had been a lie.
I placed his phone back on the nightstand and lay down beside him, staring at the ceiling. The next morning, I made an appointment with a divorce lawyer.
It wasn’t a decision made in anger or impulse—it was a decision made in complete clarity. There was no fixing this. No coming back.
I started looking for apartments, knowing it wouldn’t be easy. Our town had a housing shortage, but I would find something. I had to.
Ryan acted like nothing was wrong, so I did the same. I smiled when he cracked jokes, nodded when he talked about his day, pretended everything was normal. But every time he touched me, I felt nothing.
Lying next to him at night, I thought about all the red flags I had ignored—the small lies, the broken promises, the way he always made excuses. I’d convinced myself they didn’t matter, that he’d be there when it counted. I’d been wrong.
I didn’t know exactly when I would leave, but I knew one thing—I was going. And I wasn’t telling him until I was ready.
Just like he hadn’t told me he wasn’t coming.