I never thought I’d end up like this—lying in bed, drenched in sweat, my body shaking with fever, too weak to even lift my head. My limbs felt like they were weighed down with bricks, every movement exhausting. My throat was raw, my skin burning hot, and a pounding headache made everything worse.
On the floor beside my bed, my one-year-old daughter, Lily, played with her stuffed rabbit. Every so often, she’d look up at me with her big, curious eyes, babbling softly. She didn’t understand that something was wrong. She didn’t know I was too sick to even hold her.
I reached for my phone with trembling hands and pressed the call button. It rang a few times before my husband, Ryan, finally picked up.
“Hey, babe,” he said, his voice distracted. In the background, I could hear people talking, laughing—he was still at work.
“Ryan…” My voice was barely a whisper. “I feel awful. I need you to come home.”
He hesitated. “What’s going on?”
“I can’t take care of Lily. I can’t even sit up. Please, just come home.” My breath was shaky, my vision blurring.
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.
But twenty minutes turned into an hour.
I kept checking my phone, but there were no new messages. My fever climbed higher, my body trembling with chills. Lily had started to fuss, rubbing her eyes—she was hungry, tired, and I couldn’t even pick her up. I tried to sit up, but my arms gave out, and I collapsed back onto the mattress, gasping. My stomach churned, nausea creeping up my throat.
With numb fingers, I texted Ryan.
Me: Are you close?
A minute later, my phone buzzed.
Ryan: Just finishing up. Leaving soon.
I stared at the message, my stomach twisting. Something felt off.
Another thirty minutes passed. My whole body ached, and my skin felt like fire. I could barely keep my eyes open, but I forced myself to type 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 at most.
Then, everything hit at once—pain, dizziness, nausea. I barely managed to roll over before vomiting onto the floor. Lily started wailing, her tiny hands gripping the edge of the bed, desperate for me to hold her. But I couldn’t. My whole body was shutting down.
I fumbled for my phone, my fingers barely able to press the screen. My heart pounded. I needed help.
Ryan had a close friend at work—his coworker, Mike. I never texted 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. He hadn’t left. He never left.
Lies.
I tried to call Ryan. No answer. I called again. Voicemail.
I needed help. Now.
With the last bit of strength I had, I scrolled through my contacts and stopped at Mrs. Thompson, our elderly neighbor. I pressed call.
She answered on the second ring. “Hello?”
“M-Mrs. Thompson,” I croaked. “I need help.”
Her voice sharpened with concern. “What’s wrong, dear?”
“I’m really sick. 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. My vision blurred. I closed my eyes and waited.
The next thing I remembered was the hospital lights—too bright, too white. A steady beeping filled the air as a nurse adjusted the IV in my arm. My whole body ached, my skin clammy with sweat.
A doctor stood at the foot of my bed, his eyes tired but kind. “You gave us a scare,” he said. “Severe kidney infection. Your heart rate was dangerously high when you arrived.”
I swallowed hard. “How bad was it?”
His expression turned serious. “You were close to septic shock. Another few hours, and we might be having a very different conversation.”
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. 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.
“Hey,” he said, stepping inside. “You okay?”
I just stared at him, my throat 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 hoarse. “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.
My parents drove four hours to pick up Lily. My dad barely spoke to Ryan. My mom held my hand, her eyes filled with worry.
Ryan visited once. He brought me a granola bar and a bottle of water, as if I was recovering from a mild cold.
“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.
That night, as he scrolled through his phone beside me in bed, I stared at the ceiling. And I knew.
I didn’t love him anymore.
And I wasn’t going to stay.
That night, after he fell asleep, I took his phone. I had never done this before, but something inside me whispered, Check.
His messages. Conversations with women I didn’t know.
Tinder.
No mention of me being sick. No concern. Just memes and jokes with his friends while I was in a hospital bed.
He never even told his boss he needed to leave work.
I placed his phone back on the nightstand and lay down beside him. The next morning, I made an appointment with a divorce lawyer.
I wasn’t making a decision in anger. I was making a decision in clarity.
There was no fixing this. No coming back.
And I wasn’t telling him until I was ready.
Just like he hadn’t told me he wasn’t coming home.
