I never thought I’d end up like this—burning with fever, too weak to stand, my body trembling as if it didn’t belong to me anymore. My limbs felt heavy, my head pounded, and even the smallest movement sent waves of nausea through me.
On the floor beside my bed, my one-year-old daughter, Lily, sat playing with her stuffed rabbit, occasionally looking up at me with wide, innocent eyes. She giggled, babbling softly to herself, unaware that something was terribly wrong.
I swallowed painfully and reached for my phone with trembling fingers. My hands felt clumsy, the screen too bright against my feverish eyes. I scrolled to my husband’s contact and pressed the call button. The phone rang, and after a few beats, Ryan finally picked up.
“Hey, babe,” he answered casually. There was noise in the background—voices, laughter, the hum of an office. He was still at work.
“Ryan,” I whispered, my throat dry and scratchy. “I feel awful. I need you to come home.”
There was a pause. “What’s going on?” he asked, his voice laced with mild concern but not urgency.
“I can’t take care of Lily,” I croaked. “I can’t even sit up. Please, Ryan. I need you.”
He exhaled. “Alright, I’ll finish up here and head out soon.”
“How soon?” I asked weakly.
“Give me, like, twenty minutes. Just need to wrap something up.”
Relief flooded me. “Okay. Thank you.”
I hung up and let my eyes close, telling myself I could hold on for twenty minutes. I just had to wait.
But an hour passed.
My phone remained silent. No messages. No calls. My fever had climbed, my body burning hot and shivering at the same time. Lily had started fussing, hungry and tired, but I was too weak to lift her. I tried to sit up, but my arms gave out. The room spun. I collapsed back onto the mattress, breathing hard.
I fumbled for my phone again, blinking against the dizziness, and texted Ryan.
Me: Are you close?
A minute later, my phone buzzed.
Ryan: Just finishing up. Leaving soon.
I frowned, my gut twisting. Something felt wrong.
Thirty more minutes passed. My body ached like I’d been hit by a truck. My hands shook as I typed another message.
Me: I really need you here. Now.
Ryan: Stuck in traffic. Almost home.
Traffic? That made no sense. We lived in a small town. The drive from his office to our house took fifteen minutes.
A wave of nausea surged through me. I tried to push myself up again, but this time, my stomach lurched violently. I barely managed to roll over before vomiting onto the floor. The sound made Lily cry, her tiny voice filled with distress. I couldn’t even comfort her. I couldn’t do anything.
I needed help.
My fingers shook as I scrolled through my contacts. My heart pounded as I found a name I rarely contacted—Mike, Ryan’s coworker. Desperation outweighed hesitation. I sent a text.
Me: Hey, is Ryan still at work?
The response came almost instantly.
Mike: Yeah, he’s still here. Why?
A cold, sharp fear sliced through my fever.
Ryan had lied. He never left work.
I wanted to be furious, but I was too sick to feel anything but fear. My body burned with fever, my head pounded, my vision blurred. I called Ryan. No answer. Again. Straight to voicemail.
I needed someone—anyone. I scrolled further, my weak fingers stopping on Mrs. Thompson, our elderly neighbor. I pressed call.
She answered on the second ring. “Hello?”
“M-Mrs. Thompson,” I croaked. “I need help.”
“What’s wrong, dear?” she asked, concern sharp in her voice.
“I’m really sick,” I whispered. “Ryan’s not home. I need to go to the hospital.”
“I’m coming,” she said instantly. “Hold tight.”
Relief crashed over me. 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 the too-bright hospital lights. My body ached, my skin was clammy with sweat. A nurse adjusted the IV in my arm while a steady beeping filled the room.
A doctor stood at the foot of my bed, middle-aged with tired eyes. “You gave us a scare,” he said. “Severe kidney infection. Your heart rate was dangerously high when you arrived.”
My throat was dry. “How bad was it?”
His expression was serious. “You were close to septic shock. Another few hours, and we might be having a very different conversation.”
My stomach twisted. Another few hours.
Mrs. Thompson saved me. Not Ryan.
Two hours later, Ryan finally showed up.
I heard him before I saw him—chatting with a nurse, his tone light, casual. Then the door swung open, and he strolled in with a coffee in one hand and his phone in the other.
“Hey,” he said, stepping inside. 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 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 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 spent two days in the hospital. My parents drove four hours to pick up Lily. My mom held my hand, her eyes full of worry. My dad barely spoke to Ryan.
Ryan visited once. He brought a granola bar and water, like I had a simple flu. “You’ll be home soon,” he said. “This was just a fluke, you know? One of those things.”
I didn’t answer. I just kept hearing the doctor’s words: Another few hours.
That night, back home, Ryan lay beside me, scrolling through his phone, chuckling at some video. He never asked how I felt.
And that’s when I knew—I didn’t love him anymore. And I wasn’t staying.
That night, while he slept, I checked his phone. My hands shook as I scrolled through messages—flirty texts, winking emojis, Tinder, conversations with women I didn’t know.
While I had been fighting to stay alive, he had been laughing with them.
The next morning, I made an appointment with a divorce lawyer. I wasn’t leaving in anger. I was leaving with clarity.
And this time, I wouldn’t wait for him to come home.
