His Deathbed Confession Cost Him Everything Chapter 2

Christopher clearly hadn’t expected me to agree so quickly. He stared at the signed papers, looking stunned, almost disappointed that I hadn't begged him to stay.

I didn't give him time to process. I walked into the bedroom and went into overdrive, throwing his designer shirts and cashmere sweaters into two massive suitcases.

He stood in the doorway, bewildered. "Diana, are you really in such a rush to kick me out?"

I shot him a look over my shoulder. "Why wait? Every minute you're here is a minute you're not with your 'Muse.' And we wouldn't want to waste your precious, limited time, would we?"

I zipped the suitcases shut with a loud thrip. "Your clothes are here. I’ll have a professional moving crew send your books to whatever address you give me tomorrow. I’ll send them COD—cash on delivery. Don't forget to pay them."

A look of realization dawned on Christopher’s face, followed by a sneer of pity. "I see. Now that you know I'm terminal, you can't wait to unload the 'burden,' can you?"

He looked at me with a holier-than-thou disdain. "This is why these years have been such a struggle. Our marriage was a mistake from the start. You are so transactional, so obsessed with the bottom line. You only ever wanted to talk about money and chores. You were a waste of my time."

He sighed, his eyes glazing over with that dreamy look again. "But life shouldn't be a chore. Becca says life should be a snowfall we stop to admire. It should be moonlight and poetry..."

My stomach turned. I couldn't help but cut him off. "Are you finished? My 'common' ears can't take any more of this Hallmark-channel-crap. Take your bags and get the hell out of my house."

Christopher’s gold-rimmed glasses caught the light, cold and sterile. He looked at me as if I were a smudge on a painting, a piece of filth infecting his spiritual sanctuary. He opened his mouth to retort, but his phone buzzed.

His expression softened instantly. He answered, and I caught the faint, melodic lilt of a woman’s voice.

His "Becca."

She said something on the other end—probably something coy or "soulful"—and a look of pure, doting indulgence washed over his face. He spoke to her with a tenderness I had never heard in ten years of marriage.

I used to think all marriages were like ours—quiet, stable, a bit dull. I thought that was just what adulthood felt like. Now I realized my marriage wasn't just dull; it was a hollow shell.

Christopher left.

I stood in the middle of the empty living room. The sun was still shining, the flowers on the balcony were swaying in the breeze, and birds were chirping outside.

The world didn't stop because a marriage ended.

I thought I would cry. I thought I would break down or smash a vase. But I didn't.

The epiphany hit me with a lightness that felt like flying. In the span of a few hours, I had gone from joy (he's not dying!) to shock (he's leaving me) to rage (he's a cheater) to a strange, soaring sense of relief.

Why would I want a man like that? He was gone, I had the house, and he was effectively dead to me anyway. It was like winning the lottery and having the trash take itself out at the same time.

Oh, wait.

I felt the paper in my pocket—the misdiagnosis report. My husband wasn't going to die. He was just going to roll out of my life in a very literal, very healthy way.