Then one evening, my phone rang.
It was him.
His voice was weak—almost unrecognizable.
“I’m sick,” he whispered. “It’s serious.”
The younger woman—the one who made him feel alive—was gone within weeks of his diagnosis. Cancer doesn’t sparkle the way youth does. It doesn’t flatter the ego. It demands patience, sacrifice, and strength.
She had none of those to give.
He was alone in a small apartment, too weak to cook, too proud to call anyone else.
Except me.
I stared at my phone for a long time after that first call. I owed him nothing. He had shattered our family, abandoned his children, and left me to rebuild from ashes.
But my children still loved their father.
And despite everything, I couldn’t let another human being suffer alone.
So I helped him.
