Off The Record
My Husband Left Me During Chemo To Join His Mom On A Luxury Thanksgiving Trip — Karma Repaid Them Quickly
Nora is forced to deal with the unimaginable on her own when her husband chose luxury over loyalty during her chemotherapy. However, unexpected grace starts to blossom as betrayal destroys bridges. Heartbreak, recovery, and the kind of love that comes when you’ve finally given up searching are all themes in this tale.
I was on the verge of death two years ago.
I was thirty years old, had just received a cancer diagnosis, and was halfway through the chemotherapy process, which not only tests your fortitude and willpower but also robs you of your identity.
My hair fell out. My hunger. My perception of time.
I once said, “Some days, even the smell of the fridge makes me nauseous,” but there was no response. “How’s that for normal?”
Light blazed. The flavour of water was metallic.
Even yet, I believed that the cancer would be the worst aspect.
But what do you know? No, it wasn’t.
It was when I came to the realisation that my spouse, with whom I had been married for five years, was not who I had assumed him to be.
The week prior to Thanksgiving, it took place. My husband, Garrett, entered the bedroom clutching his phone as if it were a burn. He was not seated next to me. His eyes darted from the floor to the door as he stood there.
“Mom invited me on a trip, Nora,” he addressed her. “To celebrate our birthdays. You know how much she loves spending our birthdays together. Anyway, she already booked it. And it’s in this resort in Montana. It’s a great place — luxury.”
I gave him a blink. My bones ached from my last treatment, my skin was clammy, and my arm hurt from being pricked.
I said, “What about me?”
He chewed his bottom lip as he replied, “Um… Look, Nora,” “She doesn’t… Mom doesn’t want you there. She said that your… illness would ruin the holiday.”
I was unable to talk for a moment. Evelyn sounded just like that.
“Excuse me? Garrett, you can’t be serious.”
“She just thinks that it won’t be relaxing. You know… with everything going on,” he stated.
I looked at Garrett and exclaimed, “You’re leaving me? During chemo, Garrett? On Thanksgiving?” while my stomach turned over.
My spouse didn’t respond. His quiet said for itself, so he didn’t need to.
He simply gave me a torn yet disconnected look, and I knew right then.
He was leaving me behind.
After a few more seconds of standing in the doorway, Garrett turned and left the room.
I heard his bag softly zip and drawers open. I heard unhesitating footsteps. When my husband walked in to get his charger, he didn’t give me a glance. Additionally, he didn’t enquire about my needs or whether the nausea had subsided.
He simply packed for his trip as if nothing had happened.
He came back and lingered next to the bed for a while. He refused to look into my eyes. Since Evelyn had purchased the strong cologne for him, I was unable to dislike it, but I could smell it every time he was around his mother.
He muttered, “I’ll call you when I land, hon,” before bending down to give me a forehead kiss. His lips pressed against my skull in a brief, disjointed motion. Emotion and warmth were absent. It was the type of kiss you give a kid you’ve already given up on emotionally.
“I’m sorry.”
After that, he departed.
It ended with the front door closing. Garrett had vanished.
The heat was too intense for me to be warm, so I cuddled up on the couch with a fleece blanket over my shoulders. Perfect families were cutting turkeys while the TV played in the background.
I whispered, “Change the channel,” “Just… anything else.”
I skipped meals. I drank very little water. In the backdrop, the TV showed flawless families laughing at each other’s stories and cutting flawless turkeys.
I changed to a show about home remodelling. No families. Just paint, plasterboard and a voiceover I could ignore.
Not out of rage, but every time I thought of them, I felt a hollow aching in my chest that made it difficult to breathe—Evelyn boasting about the spa treatments, Garrett sipping champagne.
But from the overwhelming weight of being abandoned.
I called Ruby, a divorce lawyer, three days later.
I said, “My husband left for a luxury vacation while I’m mid-chemo,” trying to sound more composed than I actually was. I pictured myself wearing a gorgeous pantsuit and a silk scarf around my head as I stood in a courtroom.
A pause occurred. Then I was gently brought back to reality by the lawyer’s voice.
“Would you like to consider counselling before filing, Nora?” she responded. “Sometimes —”
“No,” I responded, cutting in. “There’s absolutely nothing to fix here. He left while I’m… suffering. Tell me what I can do and how we can do it.”
She didn’t press. Rather, Ruby approached me.
After I told her that I was receiving chemotherapy, she offered to meet at my house.
“Don’t worry about coming downtown, Nora,” she urged over the phone. “I’ll bring everything we need. You just focus on getting through this.”
She showed in wearing a blue blazer, soft-soled flats that made no noise on my wooden floors, and a leather portfolio. She didn’t look at the scarf on my head, which surprised me because I partly expecting her to be clinical or frigid.
The kitchen table was where we sat. I had to take gaps between statements, my body still suffering from the latest round of treatment. Ruby didn’t rush me at all.
“We file under a no-fault basis,” she stated gently, glancing through her paperwork. “In our state, that means you’re not legally required to prove wrongdoing. You just have to state that the marriage has irretrievably broken down.”
I asked, blinking slowly, “That’s it?”
“It’s cleaner,” she said. “It protects your privacy, and honestly, it’ll keep things simpler. Especially if he’s not contesting it.”
“He won’t,” I said. “He left without even pretending to fix it. And I’m pretty sure that his mother will be overjoyed. She’s hated every moment of my illness.”
Ruby hesitated, then slid a blank sheet across the table.
“I’d like to document any ways this experience has impacted you — physically and emotionally. Just for my records, Nora. You don’t have to write it now, but whenever you’re ready.”
I cautiously picked up the pen.
“I’m tired all the time,” I murmured. “I feel like a ghost in my own house. I can’t taste anything, and I keep dreaming about being left behind. And not just by Garrett — by everyone.”
Ruby’s face softened as she said, “Write that down,” “All of it. It matters.”
Within an hour, we completed the papers. Ruby smiled reassuringly and handed me a copy.
Standing, she said, “I’ll take care of the rest.” “I’ll be in touch soon. You just rest.”
That following week, the documents were submitted. Garrett remained silent. He didn’t even request a conversation. A scanned signature, a few brief emails, and an automated confirmation that it was finished were all included.
It was odd to see all that pain and history reduced to legalese and PDF attachments.
However, I needed the distance. After their ‘birthday vacation’, Garrett headed straight to his mother’s place without even picking up his other belongings. Evelyn most likely assured him that she would provide for all of his needs.
After then, karma appeared.
My phone started vibrating when I was dozing off on the couch during the third week following the divorce. Message after message from my friends:
“Nora… did you see the news?”
“Turn on the TV, Nor! Right now!”
“This is unreal. Serves that good-for-nothing man, right!”
My friend Holly provided me the first link, which I clicked on. Although the footage was hazy, it was clearly from a few weeks ago. In the centre of a swamped resort lobby were Garrett and Evelyn. They appeared to be as miserable as they could be, their clothes were wrinkled, and their luggage was soaked.
The resort’s luxury wing had apparently experienced a plumbing burst. Their suite had been destroyed. All of Evelyn’s high-end handbags and shoes were damaged. My mother-in-law, of course, made a commotion by yelling at the management and threatening to file a lawsuit.
A staff member remarked, “They were the worst guests we’ve had this season,”
Just enough people saw the video. Whispering began among friends. The video was posted on social media by mutual acquaintances. Even though it didn’t make the top page, the humiliation was nonetheless painful.
They were prohibited from going back. I was informed that they were stranded in a distant area of the nation without transportation and that Evelyn’s booking deposit had been lost.
As I yawned, I wondered what Garrett would do next. which was when a text message from him rang on my phone.
“Can we talk? Please, Nora?”
I took a long time to read the message. And I didn’t feel angry or conflicted for once.
“No, Garrett. There’s nothing to talk about. You made your choice.”
Once more, he extended his hand. It was a brief email requesting a follow-up conversation and the recipe for my chilli tofu.
It wasn’t glamorous what came next. I didn’t have a montage of “getting my life back.”
Some days were difficult. Days of loneliness. I kept a journal, even when all I had to say was, “I’m still here.”
I purchased an indoor plant. I opened my face to the sun once more. I started walking for five minutes and ended after fifty. I worked as a volunteer at the community centre once a week, folding brochures and stuffing envelopes.
I wasn’t trying to find happiness. All I needed was evidence that I could move once more.
On the pavement, I said, “Okay. Ten minutes today,” on my first stroll. “Just ten.”
It eventually became twenty. Next, fifty. Then, when the sun hit my face, I smiled softly.
I was in remission eventually, a stage of my journey that I wasn’t sure I would ever reach.
Then Caleb arrived.
At a fundraiser, I got to know him. When the Sharpie dried up, he was talking to himself and fumbling with name tags at the registration table. I nearly passed him, but he looked up and gave me a smile as if we were previously acquainted.
I felt as though I belonged there, beside him.
He looked over the list and said, “Are you Nora?” “Ah — the last seat’s still open. Unless you want to run away with me and avoid this whole thing.”
Before I could stop myself, I started laughing.
Caleb handed me a sticker name tag and pointed to the snack table, saying, “You look like someone who deserves the last cookie.”
I said, “There’s always a catch,” and I arched an eyebrow.
“Nope. It’s just a cookie for you. And maybe, later, someone to talk to when this thing gets awkward.”
No big gesture was made. It was simply a calm confidence and kindness that didn’t need to be displayed.
After that, we began dating. At start, there was nothing formal about it. simply hanging around exits together for extended periods of time and overlapping at the same activities. As he walked me to my car, Caleb would enquire about my day. He never once enquired about my scarf or the fact that I still winced at sudden loudness.
He simply… Leave me alone.
He eventually talked one evening while we were strolling around the park under a stand of trees.
His words, “I lost someone too,” “Not to cancer, but to something just as slow and terrifying. It left behind a hole I didn’t know what to do with.”
Caleb didn’t provide details, and I didn’t ask for them. Nevertheless, he reached for me, and I gave in.
“I guess I just got tired of waiting to feel like myself again,” I whispered gently. “After my ex-husband pulled that stunt of his, I knew it was time to make a change in my life.”
When he proposed a year later, there was no show and no audience. Caleb and I were alone on the peaceful road where we had first learnt to be silent together.
“I don’t need a perfect life,” he stated to me. “Just a true and honest one with you.”
Oliver and Sophie, our healthy and content twins, were born last month.
Every time I hold them, I consider what it means to choose love—the sort that sits next to you in the dark, not the kind that’s simple when things are light. Caleb made no attempt to correct me.
He remained. In the process, he assisted me in locating the fragments that I was unaware were still present.
What about Evelyn?
Word spread. Evelyn’s pals began to avoid her. No more breakfasts that are catered. No more carefully chosen group messages.
Someone reportedly said, “She’s exhausting,” during a dinner party. “All she does is stir the pot, then cry when it boils.”
And Garrett—well, updates arrived even though I didn’t ask. He had been attempting to date again, but nothing had stuck, according to mutual friends. His reputation suffered.
People saw how frequently he drank. The biggest laugher in the room used to be him. He hardly appeared at all now.
Sometimes I just sit in the nursery and watch the babies breathe when the house is finally quiet and they are asleep.
I was curled up in the glider with tears in my eyes when Caleb came in last week. With a look of dread, he hurried over.
He crouched next to me and said, “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” I answered, touching his hand. “I’m just… here. Really here.”
In all honesty, there are evenings when I can still clearly recall the hospital bed. as well as the sound of the machines. My skin was as thin and pale as paper back when my arms were too feeble to lift. I couldn’t imagine anything other than survival at the time.
I didn’t pray for happiness. I simply pleaded for an additional day.
Here I am today, robust, healthy, and living.
Everything I never imagined seeing again is now in my possession. A house filled with love. Two infants who encircle me with their little fingers as if I were everything. And a man who never causes me to doubt his concern for me.
Caleb is already calling the doctor when I even sniffle. He tucks the blanket further on my legs, strokes my feet, and says things like, “Rest is productive,” as he warms my soup.
Caleb placed a mug of chamomile on the nightstand and said, “Feet up,” last night. “Rest is productive, remember?”
He tightened the blanket, caressed my ankles, and hummed to himself as if there were a sound for serenity.
He will murmur, “I’ve got you,” and plant a kiss on my forehead. “Always.”
I also think he’s real.
The goal of healing is not to make the people who have harmed you suffer. The goal is to reach a point when their names no longer hurt. Where the absence of them is not agony but space.
It’s funny since I ended up where I was supposed to be after being abandoned.
And that is more than sufficient.
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