Two years ago, at thirty and deep into chemotherapy, I thought cancer would be the hardest thing I’d ever face. My body felt foreign, food tasted like metal, and even light hurt—but I still believed love would be steady. I was wrong. The real breaking point came when my husband told me he was leaving for a luxury Thanksgiving trip his mother booked, one I wasn’t invited to because my illness would “ruin” it.

He packed while I lay weak in bed, said he was sorry, and walked out. I spent the holiday alone, watching happy families on TV, feeling less angry than erased. Three days later, I called a divorce attorney. There was no fight, no drama—just paperwork quietly ending a marriage that had already abandoned me.

Recovery didn’t arrive dramatically. It came in small acts: journaling, short walks, volunteering, choosing to keep moving. I reached remission, and somewhere along the way, I met Caleb—kind, patient, and present. He didn’t rush me or try to fix me. He simply stayed.

Now we have twins, and I understand something I didn’t before: love is proven in uncertainty, not celebrations. Being left didn’t break me. It made room—for healing, for honesty, and for a life that finally feels like home.