Burning with fever, too weak to even lift my head, I clutched my phone in shaking hands and dialed my husband’s number.
“Ryan,” I croaked when he finally picked up. My throat was raw, every word an effort. “Please, I need you to come home. I can’t take care of Lily like this.”
I could hear voices in the background, laughter, the clinking of glasses. He was at work.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, sounding distracted.
“I’m really sick,” I whispered. “I can’t even sit up. Please come home.”
He sighed. “Alright, I’ll finish up here and head out soon.”
Relief washed over me. “How soon?”
“Twenty minutes, tops.”
I clung to those words, shutting my eyes against the pounding in my skull. Just twenty minutes. I could manage.
But an hour passed.
Lily, my one-year-old daughter, sat on the floor beside my bed, clutching her stuffed rabbit. She babbled to herself, but I could hear the rising whine in her voice. She was getting hungry. Restless. I had to get up.
I tried. My arms gave out. My head spun. I collapsed back onto the pillow, drenched in sweat. My fever was worse. My whole body ached, burning and freezing at the same time.
I reached for my phone and 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 half hour crawled by, and I tried again.
Me: I really need you here. Now.
Ryan: Stuck in traffic. Almost home.
Traffic? In our small town? That made no sense. The drive from his office to our house took fifteen minutes at most.
I tried to sit up again. My stomach lurched violently, and I barely managed to roll over before vomiting onto the floor. Lily started crying, startled by the sound. My heart squeezed. I couldn’t even comfort her.
With shaking hands, I fumbled for my phone. My vision blurred as I scrolled through my contacts and found Ryan’s coworker, Mike. I never texted him, but I had no choice.
Me: Hey, is Ryan still at work?
The reply came almost instantly.
Mike: Yeah, he’s still here. Why?
My blood ran cold. He hadn’t left. He never left.
Lies.
I called Ryan. No answer. Again. Voicemail.
I couldn’t think straight. My skin was on fire, my head pounding so hard I thought it might split open. But I knew one thing: I needed help. Now.
I scrolled through my contacts again and landed on Mrs. Thompson, our neighbor. With the last of my strength, I pressed call.
She picked up on the second ring. “Hello?”
“M-Mrs. Thompson,” I choked out. “I need help.”
“What’s wrong, dear?” Her voice sharpened with concern.
“I’m really sick. Ryan’s not home. I need to go to the hospital.”
“I’m coming,” she said immediately. “Hold tight.”
I let the phone slip from my fingers. Lily’s cries filled the room.
Then darkness.
The next thing I remembered was the brightness. Blinding, sterile hospital lights above me. A steady beeping somewhere close. The cool touch of an IV in my arm.
“You gave us a scare,” a voice said. I turned my head slowly, wincing. A middle-aged doctor stood at the foot of my bed, his expression serious.
“What happened?” My voice was barely above a whisper.
“Severe kidney infection,” he said. “You were close to septic shock. Another few hours, and we might be having a very different conversation.”
I swallowed hard. Another few hours.
Mrs. Thompson had saved me. Not Ryan.
Two hours later, he finally showed up.
I heard his voice before I saw him, casually chatting with a nurse in the hallway. Then the door swung open, and there he was—holding a coffee in one hand, his phone in the other.
“Hey,” he said, stepping inside. He looked normal. Like a man who had just come from running errands. Not like a husband who had almost lost his wife.
I didn’t have the strength to be angry.
“You okay?” he asked, stopping 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. “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 couldn’t even respond.
I spent two more 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 me a granola bar and a bottle of water, like I had 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. Just 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 hearing the doctor’s words in my head.
Another few hours.
That night, I lay awake beside him, staring at the ceiling while he scrolled through his phone, chuckling at some video. And I knew—I didn’t love him anymore.
And I wasn’t going to stay.
After he fell asleep, I took his phone. I had never done this before, never felt the need to. But something inside me whispered, Check.
His messages. Conversations with women whose names I didn’t recognize. Winking emojis. Inside jokes. Compliments he never gave me.
Can’t wait to see you again. Last night was amazing. You looked so good today.
Tinder.
His work emails. No request for time off. No mention of me being sick. 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 in pain.
It was made in clarity.
There was no fixing this. No coming back.
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.
