I never thought I’d end up like this—flat on my back, burning with fever, too weak to stand. My body felt like it wasn’t mine anymore, just a shell weighed down by exhaustion and pain. Every breath was a struggle, my limbs heavy, my head pounding.
Beside my bed, my one-year-old daughter, Lily, sat on the floor, clutching her stuffed rabbit. She babbled softly, occasionally glancing up at me with wide, innocent eyes. She didn’t understand that something was wrong.
I needed help. I needed Ryan.
With trembling fingers, I reached for my phone and called my husband. The line rang a few times before he answered.
“Hey, babe,” he said casually. I could hear voices in the background—his coworkers, maybe? Laughter. Clinking glasses.
I swallowed painfully. “Ryan, 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,” I whispered. “Please.”
He let out a sigh. “Alright, I’ll finish up here and head out soon.”
Relief washed over me. “How soon?”
“Give me, like, twenty minutes. Just need to wrap something up.”
“Okay,” I murmured. “Thank you.”
I hung up and closed my eyes. Just twenty minutes. I could hold on for twenty minutes.
An hour passed.
I checked my phone—no new messages. My fever had climbed higher, sending shivers down my spine. Lily was starting to fuss, her small cries piercing through my haze of pain. I forced myself to move, tried to sit up, but my arms gave out beneath me. My stomach churned violently, and I barely managed to roll over before vomiting onto the floor.
Lily whimpered, frightened by the sound. I couldn’t even comfort her.
My fingers fumbled over the phone screen as I typed a message.
Me: Are you close?
A minute later, my phone buzzed.
Ryan: Just finishing up. Leaving soon.
I frowned. Something felt off.
Another thirty minutes passed. My whole body ached, my head spinning. I forced my shaking hands to type again.
Me: I really need you here. Now.
Ryan: Stuck in traffic. Almost home.
Traffic? We lived in a small town. His drive from work took fifteen minutes at most.
Dread pooled in my stomach. I needed to know the truth.
Ryan had a close friend at work—his coworker, Mike. I didn’t usually text him, but right now, I had no choice.
Me: Hey, is Ryan still at work?
Mike replied almost instantly.
Mike: Yeah, he’s still here. Why?
My blood ran cold.
He hadn’t left. He never left.
Lies.
My mind swirled, struggling to process it, but my fever was too high, my body too weak. I tried calling Ryan—no answer. Again—straight to voicemail.
I needed help. Now.
My eyes landed on the name “Mrs. Thompson.” Our elderly neighbor. Hands shaking, I pressed call.
She picked up on the second ring. “Hello?”
“M-Mrs. Thompson,” I croaked. “I need help.”
Her voice sharpened. “What’s wrong, dear?”
“I’m really sick,” I whispered. “Ryan’s not home. I need to go to the hospital.”
“I’m coming,” she said without 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 knew, bright hospital lights burned my eyes. A steady beeping echoed somewhere near me. My body felt heavy, my mouth dry. A nurse adjusted an IV in my arm as I blinked up at her.
“You gave us a scare,” a doctor said, standing at the foot of my bed. “Severe kidney infection. Your heart rate was dangerously high when you arrived.”
I swallowed hard. “How bad was it?”
He sighed. “You were close to septic shock. Another few hours, and we might be having a very different conversation.”
Another few hours.
Mrs. Thompson had saved me. Not Ryan.
Two hours later, he finally showed up.
I heard him before I saw him—his voice in the hallway, laughing with a nurse. Then he walked in, coffee in hand, his phone in the other. He looked… normal. Like a man who had spent the day running errands, not like someone who almost lost his wife.
“Hey,” he said, stepping inside. “You okay?”
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. “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 visited once. He brought a bottle of water and a granola bar, as if I had just come down with a cold, 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 talked about work, traffic, some funny video he saw. He never once asked how I felt.
Lying in bed that night, staring at the ceiling, a thought hit me like a freight train—what if it had been Lily? What if our daughter had been the one sick, needing him? Would he have lied to her too?
I turned my head and looked at him. He was scrolling through his phone, chuckling at something. I knew in that moment—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, never felt the need. But something whispered inside me: Check.
The first thing I saw were messages. Conversations with women I didn’t know.
Can’t wait to see you again. Last night was amazing.
Tinder.
Memes sent to friends while I was hooked to an IV. No mention of me. No concern. No regret.
Then came the final blow—his work emails. No request for time off. No mention of an emergency. The entire excuse had been a lie.
I placed his phone back on the nightstand and lay beside him, staring at the ceiling.
The next morning, I made an appointment with a divorce lawyer.
Not out of anger. Not out of impulse. Out of clarity.
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.
