When My Fiancé Chose His Mistress Over My Cancer

The oncology suite at Seattle General smelled like disinfectant and something else I couldn't name. Something sterile. Something final.

Dr. Sandra Yee sat across from me with a folder open on her desk. She was maybe fifty, with kind eyes and a voice that had delivered bad news so many times it had developed a particular gentleness. I watched her mouth move. The words came out slow and clear.

"Stage IV hepatocellular carcinoma. Inoperable. The tumor has metastasized to your lymph nodes and lungs."

I nodded. My hands were folded in my lap. They looked calm.

"How long?" I asked.

Dr. Yee's eyes softened. "Three months. Maybe four if we're fortunate."

Three months.

The same disease that killed my father. The same timeline. The same slow erasure.

I thought about my mother packing her bags while Dad slept in the hospice bed we'd set up in the living room. I was sixteen. She kissed my forehead and said she couldn't do it anymore. She moved to Portland two weeks later. Remarried within a year. I got a Christmas card with a photo of her new family every December until I turned eighteen and threw one in the trash. She stopped sending them after that.

Dr. Yee was still talking. Clinical trials. Palliative care options. Support groups.

I heard maybe half of it.

"We'll schedule a follow-up in two weeks," she said gently. "I know this is overwhelming. Do you have someone who can drive you home?"

"I'm fine," I said.

She printed out the diagnosis summary and handed it across the desk. The paper was warm from the printer. I folded it twice and slipped it into my coat pocket. It pressed against my ribs like a secret.

I drove home with both hands on the wheel. The streets were wet. It had rained earlier. The wipers squeaked every few seconds. I focused on that sound. Squeak. Pause. Squeak. Pause.

Three months.

I parked in the apartment garage and took the elevator up. My keys felt heavier than usual. I unlocked the door and stepped inside.

Kyle was on the couch.

He wasn't alone.

Ayleen Ramirez was curled against him in a silk camisole, bare legs tucked under her, one hand resting on his chest. Two glasses of wine sat on the coffee table. Kyle was shirtless. His arm was draped over her shoulders.

He looked up when I walked in. He didn't move his arm.

"Hey," he said. "You're back early."

I stared at them. At the wine glasses. At Ayleen's hand on his chest. At the way neither of them looked remotely surprised or guilty.

Ayleen sat up a little, smoothing her hair. She gave me a small smile. "Hi, Nori."

I set my keys on the counter. The sound was very loud.

Kyle sighed. "She had a rough day. I was just comforting her."

Comforting her.

I looked at the wine. At his bare chest. At the way her camisole had slipped off one shoulder.

The diagnosis papers pressed against my ribs.

I should have said something. Screamed. Thrown the wine glasses. Demanded an explanation.

Instead, I turned and walked down the hall to the bedroom. I closed the door behind me. I sat on the edge of the bed and stared at the wall.

Three months to live.

And this.

I didn't cry. I couldn't. The tears were somewhere very far away, behind a wall I'd built when I was sixteen and my mother walked out.

I pulled the diagnosis papers out of my pocket and unfolded them. The words blurred. I folded them again and put them in my nightstand drawer, under the stack of wedding planning binders I'd been working on for six months.

I lay down fully dressed and closed my eyes.

The next morning, I woke up before Kyle. I showered. I got dressed. I walked into the kitchen and placed the Tiffany engagement ring on the counter, exactly where I'd set my keys the night before.

Kyle came out of the bedroom twenty minutes later, yawning. He saw the ring. He stopped.

"What's this?" he asked.

"I'm canceling the wedding," I said.

He laughed. Actually laughed. "Come on, Nori. Don't be dramatic."

"I already called the venue," I said. "We're done."

His smile faded. "You're seriously doing this? Over one misunderstanding?"

"It's not a misunderstanding."

"She needed someone to talk to!" His voice rose. "You're always working late, you're never around—"

"I'm leaving," I said.

I picked up the suitcase I'd packed at five that morning. I'd been methodical. Clothes. Toiletries. Laptop. Passport. Everything I needed.

Kyle stepped in front of me. "You're going to regret this."

I looked at him. Really looked at him. Six years. Six years of packing antacids in my purse. Six years of waking up at two in the morning to make him ginger tea. Six years of absorbing his one-word replies and his comments about my weight and his complaints about everything.

Six years of making myself smaller so he could feel bigger.

"No," I said quietly. "I won't."

I walked past him and out the door.

I went straight to the office. I typed up my resignation letter. I emailed it to HR. I started packing my desk.

Reign Harvey found me in the corridor twenty minutes later.

He stopped when he saw me. His eyes narrowed.

"You look terrible," he said.

I almost smiled. Reign never sugarcoated anything. It was one of the things I'd always liked about him.

"Thanks," I said.

"I'm taking you to dinner," he said.

It wasn't a question.

"I'm fine," I said.

"You're not," he said. "And I don't care. We're going."

I looked at him. At the way he was watching me with that sharp, assessing gaze he used in meetings when someone was lying about their numbers.

He saw something. I didn't know what. But he saw it.

"Okay," I said.

He nodded once. "Good. Six o'clock. Don't argue."

He walked away before I could respond.

I went back to packing my desk. The diagnosis papers were still in my nightstand drawer at the apartment. I'd have to go back for them eventually.

But not yet.

Not yet.