Seven months ago, I received a diagnosis that destr0yed everything I thought I knew about life – canc3r.
In one moment, the world tilted off its axis. I believed the worst part would be the treatments, the pain, the endless uncertainty.
But I was wrong. The real agony came from watching my husband slowly drift away, pretending to care while his heart had already moved on. One morning, as I sat on the couch with a blanket around my frail body, he said he couldn’t “bear to see me like this anymore.”
By the time I reached for my phone, our joint account was empty, and he was gone. What he didn’t realize was that I had been predicting this and I was ready.
Long before my diagnosis, I’d sensed the change – the late nights, the cold silences, the vague explanations. A quiet voice inside urged me to protect myself, so I began transferring my savings into an account under my own name.
I never thought I’d need it, but when he finally walked out, that foresight became my safety net.
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