I drove him to appointments. I sat through chemotherapy sessions. I organized his medications and cooked soft meals he could manage to swallow. I didn’t do it for love. That had long since turned to dust.
I did it because compassion is not weakness. Because my children were watching. Because I refused to let bitterness define me.
He grew thinner. Quieter. Regretful.
“I made a terrible mistake,” he told me once, tears pooling in eyes that used to look at me with pride. “You didn’t deserve what I did.”
No, I didn’t.
But apologies don’t rewind time.
When he died, I stood at his funeral beside our children. The younger woman did not appear. Neither did most of his so-called friends.
After the burial, his lawyer asked to meet.
I went, expecting little.
I left shattered.
He had left everything to her.
The savings. The life insurance. Even the rights to the house we once shared had somehow been structured in her favor during the divorce.
Nothing for the children.
Nothing for me.
