When I left home to care for my dying mother, I believed my husband would hold everything together until I returned. I imagined coming back to open arms, a safe place to land after months of heartbreak. Instead, I walked straight into a nightmare I never could have predicted.
My name is Stella. I’m 25, and I’ve been married to Evan, 27, for two years. We met young, fell in love quickly, and thought we were ready to take on the world together. With steady jobs, we bought a modest townhouse in the suburbs. It wasn’t much, but it was ours. We spent evenings decorating, planning trips, and even talking about starting a family. One night, I sat at the kitchen table scribbling baby timelines in my planner. Evan leaned across, grinning, and said, “We’ll have the cutest kid on the block.” I laughed, tossed a grape at him, and in that moment, life felt simple and full of hope.
When Mom was diagnosed with stage four cancer, I moved home to care for her through every painful moment until she passed. Coming back, I found Evan had spent those months partying, lying, and betraying me. Grief stripped away illusions—I saw his truth. Now, with Mom’s memory close, I’ve reclaimed peace, strength, and the freedom to choose better.
