The day I was diagnosed with cancer, my husband was with his childhood sweetheart.
He forgot to answer my desperate call for help, but never forgot the front passenger seat she always claimed.
He let her come and go as she pleased in the home we had bought for our marriage.
When a fire broke out, he protected her as they escaped, leaving me behind in the flames.
When I needed a skin graft to save my life, he said, “She’s afraid of pain. She matters more.”
Heartbreak after heartbreak, compromise after compromise.
At last, I understood: there was simply too little room in a marriage of three.
Only when I signed the divorce papers did he finally panic.
He searched the world for me like a madman, screaming my name.
But the countdown of my terminal cancer had already begun.
Some chances, once missed, are gone forever.
