Seven Months Pregnant When I was Diagnosed with Cancer

Seven months pregnant. That’s when they told me I had uterine cancer. I had to choose. Me or the baby. So I called my husband Harold and begged. “I’m sick, please. This is serious. I need to talk—” There was a beat of silence. Then he said, flat and cold, “Choose the baby. That’s the easy choice.” I stood there, the phone still pressed to my ear, not even crying. Just… empty. Then I saw him in the same hospital with his mistress Taylor, coming out of the OB-GYN clinic. Her hands cradled her small baby bump. Harold had his arm around her. “Are you sure you want to be here? She’s sick, Harold.” “She always pulls that crap,” Harold muttered. “She probably read it on the internet. Honestly, if she really is sick, good. Solves a lot of our problems when she dies.” They walked past me like I was air. Like I was already gone. And maybe I was. To them. But I wouldn’t let that be the end of my story. I took out my phone, scrolled to the name I’d avoided for so long, and hit call. “I’m ready,” I said quietly. “I’m agreeing to marry you now. Just… come and pick me up.” Then I turned on my heel, walked out of that hospital, and filed for divorce. In just a week, I’d finally be free of Harold. … until he showed up the night before my wedding, on his knees, pleading for a second chance.