When I was diagnosed with lymphoma, my husband Craig promised we’d face it as a team. I believed him. But while I was enduring chemotherapy sessions in a sterile hospital room, fighting for my life, I had no idea he was presenting himself as a “widowed dad” on a dating app. I wasn’t gone—and I wasn’t about to let his betrayal go unanswered.
The day Dr. Rodriguez said the word lymphoma, everything changed. “It’s aggressive,” he explained, though there was a 70% chance of survival. My name is Charlotte. I’m 40 years old, a mother of two incredible children, and I was determined to fight. I remember Craig sitting next to me during the diagnosis. His hand rested on my shoulder, but his eyes were distant. He said, “We’ll get through this,” but there was no emotion behind it—no fear, no warmth, no connection.
When I told him that treatment would begin next week, he calmly replied that he’d coordinate with his parents for the kids. There were no reassuring hugs, no long conversations about what this meant for us. His response felt procedural, like a checklist rather than a vow of support. I whispered “I love you” through tears, and he gave my hand a quick squeeze before encouraging me to rest.
That was the last moment I truly felt comforted by him.
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