While I Was Dying, My Husband Prepared for Her Baby

Dr. Cho's office smelled like antiseptic and something else I couldn't name. Something final.

I sat in the chair across from his desk while he pulled up images on his computer screen. Gray shapes on black backgrounds. He pointed with his pen at a cluster of white spots that looked like stars.

"Stage four gastric carcinoma," he said. "Metastasized to the liver and lymph nodes."

I watched his mouth move. The words came through clear but distant, like someone speaking from the other end of a long hallway.

"How long?"

"Less than four weeks. Perhaps three."

I looked at the calendar on his wall. February fourteenth. Valentine's Day. Red hearts everywhere.

"Treatment options?"

Dr. Cho folded his hands on the desk. He had kind eyes. That made it worse somehow.

"Chemotherapy might extend your time by a few weeks. The quality of life would be significantly reduced. At this stage, most patients choose palliative care."

"Pain management?"

"Yes. I can prescribe—"

"I don't want treatment," I said. "Just the pain medication."

He nodded slowly. "I understand. Is there someone I should contact? Your husband—"

"No." The word came out sharper than I meant. "Don't tell anyone. Not my husband. Not anyone."

Dr. Cho studied my face for a long moment. Then he slid the consent forms across the desk.

I signed everything with a steady hand. My signature looked the same as it always had. That seemed strange. I thought it should look different now.

Outside, the February wind cut through my coat. I walked to my car in the hospital parking garage and sat behind the wheel with the engine off. My phone said 11:47 AM. I had left the house at ten-thirty. In an hour and seventeen minutes, my entire life had ended and no one knew but me.

I counted to two hundred forty. Four minutes exactly. Then I started the car and drove home to make dinner.

The chicken went in the oven at four. I set the table with our good china—the white plates with the gold rim that we got as a wedding gift and almost never used. I put candles in the silver holders. I opened Kieran's favorite wine to let it breathe.

He came home at six-thirty, loosening his tie in the hallway.

"Something smells amazing," he said, kissing my cheek. His lips were warm. I thought about how many times he'd kissed me in ten years. Thousands probably. This was one of the last.

"Happy Valentine's Day," I said.

We sat down across from each other. The candles made his face look softer. Younger. Like the man I'd married.

He poured the wine. Took a sip. Set down his glass.

"Tessa, I need to talk to you about something."

I cut into my chicken. The knife went through easy. "Okay."

"I've met someone." He said it gently, like he was telling me about a new client. "Her name is Dayana. Dayana Morales."

I kept chewing. The chicken tasted like nothing.

"It's not physical," he continued. "It's deeper than that. It's a spiritual connection. Something I didn't even know I was missing until I found it."

I swallowed. Took a sip of water. "I see."

"She's pregnant. Nine months. The baby is mine. We did IVF."

The water glass was very cold in my hand. I set it down carefully, right in the center of the condensation ring it had left.

"I don't want a divorce," Kieran said quickly. "I love you, Tessa. I do. I just... I need you to understand. I need this. The baby. Her. But I need you too. We can make this work. People do it all the time now. Unconventional families. I just need you to be patient while we figure it out."

He reached across the table for my hand.

I looked at his fingers covering mine. He wore the wedding band I'd chosen. White gold. Simple. I'd thought it suited him.

"I need time to think," I said.

Relief flooded his face. "Of course. Take all the time you need. Thank you for understanding. I knew you would. You always do."

His phone buzzed on the table. Dayana's name lit up the screen.

"I should take this," he said, standing. "She gets anxious at night. The baby's due any day now."

He walked into the living room, his voice dropping to something soft and tender. I heard him laugh.

I sat alone at the candlelit table. My plate was still full. The chicken had gone cold. I stared at the wine bottle, the flowers I'd bought this morning, the gold-rimmed plates.

Three weeks. Maybe four.

I started making a list in my head.

That night I lay in bed beside Kieran in the dark. He fell asleep in minutes, his breathing deep and even. I stared at the ceiling and watched the shadows from the streetlight move across the plaster.

I thought about calling someone. But my parents had always chosen my brother. My friends were really Kieran's friends—people from his world who'd been polite to me because I was his wife. Dr. Cho couldn't help. A therapist would want me to process my feelings, and I didn't have time to process anything.

I had no children. No family here. No one who would miss me except the man sleeping eighteen inches away, who'd just asked me to share him like a time-share property.

The clock on the nightstand said 4:00 AM when I finally understood.

I couldn't control the cancer. But I could control everything else.

I would file the papers. Hide the diagnosis. Die on my own terms.

By the time anyone knew I was sick, I'd already be gone.

And I'd be gone free.