Brain Tumor, My Foot!

After my husband's car accident, I did a checkup and found out he had a malignant brain tumor. Instead of telling him right away, I stuck the report in my bag, planning to wait for the right moment.

Guess what? He found it first—and thought I was the one with the tumor.

A few days later, I overheard him in his office, laughing with a buddy:

"My wife? No looks, no figure, just money—and now she's got a brain tumor. Talk about a win for me. If Rainee hadn't gone abroad, I'd never have married her. Bad luck, huh? At least I dodged the kid bullet. Once she's gone, I get everything."

Then he pulled the amnesia card, blamed it on the accident, and started treating Rainee like his wife. He even welcomed her into our house.

I smiled and said, "Nathan, let's get a divorce."

I stood outside Nathan Hale's office, chest heaving, my hands trembling. His voice carried through the door, casual and cruel.

Not only did he think I had a brain tumor, but he sounded downright disgusted by me.

I almost barged in, ready to demand an explanation, but then his tone shifted—soft, affectionate. My heart sank. He was on the phone with Rainee Slade.

"Rainee, you coming over later? I'll pick you up, and we'll hit our spot. Don't worry. Feeling so much better now—thanks to you. You've been amazing. Not like Liana, who couldn't care less. Honestly, I regret everything."

I stared at the container of soup in my hands, hours of effort now mocking me. A cold wave washed over me.

Yeah, Nathan. Same here.

When his call ended, I bolted. On my way out, I passed a trash can and chucked the soup without even slowing down.

Before I made it far, Nathan texted me: [In a meeting. Back late.]

I locked the screen, staring at my reflection in the black glass. God, I'd never felt smaller.

The rain was relentless, and by the time I got home, I was soaked to the bone. I hadn't even noticed how drenched I was, too focused on rushing the soup over to Nathan. By nightfall, I was running a fever.

After popping some medicine, I collapsed onto the couch, only to be jolted awake by Nathan's annoyed voice.

"Liana! I called you so many times. What's the point of having a phone if you don't use it? Seriously, why are you always like this?"

I blinked groggily at my screen, the missed calls glaring back at me. "I wasn't feeling well. Just wanted to rest for a bit."

"A headache?" he scoffed. Then, as if catching himself, he added, "You're always overthinking stuff. That's probably why you're spiraling."

I knew what he was really saying—he thought my "tumor" symptoms were ramping up.

When I stayed quiet, he sank onto the couch next to me, loosening his tie. "Had dinner with a client tonight. Heard something wild.

"The guy's friend had a wife with cancer. She refused treatment. Said it'd be less of a burden on her husband and family since, you know, cancer's pretty much a death sentence anyway."

I froze. I'd thought his earlier jokes to his buddy were just that—jokes. But he wasn't kidding.

Every word hit like a slap. He didn't care if I lived or died.

Forcing a bitter smile, I said, "Yeah, I think so too. When one person has cancer, the whole family pays the price."

His eyes lit up like I'd just handed him a golden ticket. "You really think that way?"

I nodded. That's right, Nathan. If you skipped treatment, I'd save a fortune.

The next morning, I called the hospital, keeping my tone steady. "I need to take an extended leave. Something's come up at home."

On the other end, Clara's voice wavered. "Liana, did you hear about the results from your husband's checkup? You're a doctor—maybe you could convince him to come in for treatment."

I wore a smile that didn’t reach my eyes. "I've tried. He's convinced it's hopeless and refuses treatment."

Clara paused for a long moment before letting out a sigh. "I, uh... I called him to try and convince him, but he got angry. Said no one in his family has cancer and told me not to tell you anything. He said you needed to rest. I don't get it."

But I did. Nathan didn't want me—the one he thought was dying—to get any help.

A dry laugh rose in my throat, but it twisted into something bitter. "If the hospital can't change his mind, what do you think I can do?"

After hanging up, I started packing. Eight years in this house, and suddenly, it felt foreign.

This place, this life—Nathan included—I didn't want any of it anymore.