After 16 years of marriage, my husband Adam asked for a two-month break. No contact. No explanation beyond, “I need to figure things out.” I was stunned — and convinced he was cheating. He moved into his mom’s guesthouse. Told the kids he was helping Grandma. I cried myself to sleep, checked his socials, and confided in my best friend, who insisted there had to be another woman.
Weeks passed in a fog — until I drove by his mom’s house and noticed a nurse’s car out front. That night, I couldn’t shake the feeling. The next day, I called a neighbor. That’s when I found out the truth: Adam wasn’t cheating — he was sick. Stage two lung cancer. He’d been undergoing treatment and hiding it from me to “protect” me.I dropped the phone. Sat on the kitchen floor sobbing.
When I burst into his guesthouse, I found him pale, frail, hooked up to an IV. He looked broken. “I didn’t want you to see me like this,” he said. “I wanted to come back healthy — so you’d never know.”“You idiot,” I cried. “I signed up for all of it. I signed up for you.” So I stayed. Through chemo, pain, and nights with the puke bucket. We told the kids he was “sick,” and they filled the days with comics and playlists called Get Better Songs.
Months later, during a sunset on the hospital roof, he slid my wedding ring back onto my finger. “I never needed a break from you,” he whispered. “I needed time to fight for you.” Today, he’s in remission. His hair’s growing back. His jokes are still awful. But every morning, he kisses me and says, “Another day we get to love each other. No breaks.”