My husband fell gravely ill. I cared for him alone for 6 years, his family just erased him. When the diagnosis first came down, his parents and siblings were there for the initial hospital vigil, crying and promising the world. But as the months turned into years, and the hospital visits became a grueling routine of home care, specialized diets, and sleepless nights, they drifted away like mist. By the third year, my phone stopped ringing with their check-ins, and by the fifth, they didn’t even send a Christmas card.

I did it all because I loved him, or at least, I loved the man I thought he was. I sold my car to pay for experimental treatments and took out a second mortgage on our small house in Bristol just to keep his physical therapy going. I worked double shifts as a receptionist, coming home with swollen ankles only to spend the night checking his vitals and changing his linens. My life became a blur of antiseptic smells and the constant, nagging hum of medical equipment.

When he finally recovered, it felt like a miracle that defied every doctor’s prediction. He stood up, walked without a cane, and his strength returned with a speed that felt like a rebirth. I thought we were finally going to have the life we had put on hold, but the gratitude I expected never materialized. Instead, he looked at me with eyes that felt cold and distant, as if I were a reminder of a dark time he wanted to forget.

He dumped me for a younger woman, leaving me drowning in debt. She was a twenty-something physical therapy assistant he’d met during his final weeks of rehab. He told me he “needed a fresh start” and that seeing me just made him feel “sick and weak.” He took the little savings we had left, moved into a sleek apartment in the city, and left me with the bills, the broken house, and a heart that felt like it had been shredded.

Last night, I came home from a late shift, opened the door, and my hands started shaking when I saw three men in dark suits sitting in my living room. My first thought was that the bank was finally here to take the house, or perhaps collectors for the medical debt I couldn’t keep up with. I clutched my bag to my chest, my heart hammering against my ribs, ready to burst into tears and beg for just one more month of time.