The Regret of a Cheating Husband

On the same afternoon I learned I was finally pregnant, the doctor handed me a death sentence: stage 4 stomach cancer.

I went home to tell my husband, Anderson, only to be interrupted by a call from a woman named Katlyn.

"He' s on a '100-Day Farewell Tour' with me," she gloated, "getting the fun out of his system before he comes back to his boring duty as a father."

For the next three months, I died in silence while Anderson lived his best life with her.

He blamed my weight loss on morning sickness and my vomiting on hormones, never looking closely enough to see the blood.

On my birthday, the final day of his "tour," he bought me a cake, tucked me into bed, and immediately left to celebrate their finale in a hotel room across the street.

He thought he could just flip a switch and return to our marriage when he was ready.

He didn't know that while he was whispering promises to his mistress, I was signing our divorce papers.

I terminated the pregnancy he claimed to want so badly and left the medical report on the table.

By the time he came home to play the role of the devoted husband, I was already gone.

Chapter 1

Hana Silva POV:

I knew something was wrong when Katlyn Pope, a woman I' d never met, waved me over to her table in the bustling café, a self-satisfied smirk playing on her lips, ready to tell me she was my husband' s true love. My stomach churned, a familiar discomfort I' d grown used to lately, as I navigated the crowded tables. Katlyn' s aggressive vibe immediately set me on edge.

"So, you're Hana," she said, her voice dripping with false sympathy as I approached. "Anderson talks about you. Not in a good way, of course."

She leaned back, crossing her legs, a bright red heel tapping the floor with an irritating rhythm. Her smile stretched, showing perfect white teeth, but her eyes held a predatory gleam that sent a shiver down my spine. "He told me he belongs with me now."

"Anderson is my husband," I stated, my voice flat, holding onto the last shred of dignity I possessed. The words felt hollow, even to me.

"Are you proud of that, Katlyn? Being the other woman?" I asked, a bitter taste rising in my mouth.

Her smile didn't falter. If anything, it widened, a sign of her twisted triumph. It was a grotesque display of self-satisfaction.

With a flourish, she slid a stack of glossy photos across the table. They landed with a soft thud, a prelude to the impending devastation. The top picture was of Anderson, his arm wrapped around Katlyn, his face alight with a joy I hadn't seen in years. Joy that was never mine to inspire.

My eyes blurred, refusing to focus on the intimate details. I knew what they depicted; I didn't need to see it to feel it. The betrayal was a physical ache in my chest.

"These are just pictures," I whispered, the words hollow even to my own ears. "Anderson loves me." It was a desperate plea to a God I no longer believed in.

I pushed my chair back, the screech echoing in the quiet corner of the café. "I'm leaving." I needed to escape, to breathe air that didn't smell of cheap coffee and infidelity.

Katlyn reached out, her hand firmly grasping my wrist, her grip surprisingly strong. "Not yet, Hana. We're just getting started." Her touch felt like a brand, searing my skin.

My gaze dropped to her hand, resting on my wrist. A delicate silver ring gleamed on her finger. My heart seized. It was identical to the one Anderson wore, a ring he claimed was a 'friendship' gift from his college buddies. Lies, all lies.

A cold dread seeped into my bones. This wasn't accidental. This was a deliberate, cruel taunt, designed to inflict maximum pain.

I slowly pulled my hand away, my breath catching in my throat. I sank back into my seat, my composure a fragile mask that threatened to crack at any moment.

Katlyn's eyes narrowed, a flicker of irritation crossing her face. My lack of a dramatic outburst seemed to fuel her fire. "You're not reacting how I expected," she pouted, a childish petulance that belied her aggressive demeanor. "I thought you'd be more... upset. I've been waiting for this."

"Anderson and I are truly in love, Hana. He just hasn't had the chance to tell you," she declared, her voice rising slightly, as if to convince herself more than me.

"He was so close to leaving you," Katlyn continued, her words like daggers plunging into my soul. "But then... you got pregnant. He said it complicated things. It's why he needed his '100-Day Farewell Tour' with me, to get it out of his system before he came back to his 'duty' as a husband."

"Your pregnancy was just a leash, Hana. A way to tie him down," she spat, venom coating every syllable.

The grand cathedral of my trust, built over seven years, collapsed into rubble around me. I felt the tremors deep within my core.

Only Anderson and I knew about the baby. The implications hit me like a physical blow. He had told her. He had shared our most intimate secret with his mistress.

Katlyn's voice became a shrill cacophony, detailing their stolen moments, their shared dreams, painting a picture of a life Anderson had built with another woman. A life I thought was ours.

My mind reeled, a torrent of forgotten details flooding my consciousness. The late-night calls he took outside, the strange perfume on his shirts that he blamed on clients, the way he'd sometimes mumble Katlyn's name in his sleep and then pretend it was a dream. The hurried texts, the sudden "work trips," the excuses for missed dinners, the subtle shifts in his affection. Each memory, once dismissed as my insecurity, now clicked into place, forming a hideous mosaic of deceit.

The blind faith I had in him shattered into a million sharp pieces, each one piercing my heart. There was no doubt left, only the cold, hard truth.

"He only stays with you out of obligation, Hana. There's no love left. Not really," she sneered, enjoying my silent torment.

"I'm what he truly desires. I'm his escape," she boasted, puffing out her chest, her chest.

"He promised me these '100 days.' A grand farewell tour, he called it. To burn out our passion before he 'responsibly' returned to his marriage. But I won't let him go that easily," she declared, her eyes flashing with a possessive fire. "Not until your birthday. That's the day his 'tour' ends."

The café noise, Katlyn's voice, the clatter of cups-it all faded into a muffled hum. Only one phrase echoed in the hollow space of my mind: 100-Day Farewell Tour.

I wasn't calm. I was numb. My body had simply shut down, trying to process the overwhelming tidal wave of pain.

Too much had happened lately. More than anyone should have to bear. Each blow, each revelation, was like a dull knife twisting in an already festering wound. But this meeting, this conversation, this woman... this was the killing blow.

Hana Silva POV:

A week ago, I spent the afternoon alone, huddled in the cold wind, clutching two reports in my trembling hands. The first confirmed a new life, a tiny pulse echoing my own. After years of trying, we were finally going to be parents. The second report, however, delivered a death sentence. Stage 4 stomach cancer. The doctor' s pitying gaze was a reflection of my own shattered hope.

My heart felt like a block of ice, cold and heavy in my chest. Two years. Two long years Anderson and I had tried for a baby. The moment I saw that positive line, I immediately called him, my voice thick with tears of joy. Our families had been overjoyed, celebrating the news of an impending grandchild. Their happiness was a stark contrast to the despair that now consumed me.

Just days later, the diagnosis came. Two reports, almost at the same time. One announced a beginning, the other, an end. A new life needed ten months to grow, but I barely had any time left. How could I tell Anderson? How could I tell him we were losing everything? Two lives, entwined in tragedy. I felt the weight of fate pressing down on me, stealing my breath.

A part of me was grateful Anderson hadn't come to the doctor's appointment. At least he hadn' t seen the doctor' s sad eyes, heard the terrible words. I needed time to process, to find the words to explain the unimaginable. But before I could, Katlyn' s call had come.

That night, Anderson found me at home. He wrapped my cold hands in his, his touch sending a shiver through me. "Your hands are like ice, sweetheart," he murmured, rubbing them gently. "I'll be home more now. I promise. We'll face everything together."

I just stared, my voice caught in my throat. He felt like a stranger, his words echoing in a void I couldn't understand. Was he really capable of such betrayal?

He led me to the dining table. A steaming bowl of soup sat before me, its aroma filling the air. My eyes burned. I had a sensitive stomach, a fact he knew well, and he used to cook for me whenever I had an episode. Now, he carefully blew on a spoonful, testing the temperature, before bringing it to my lips.

"Say 'ah'," he coaxed, his smile tender.

Anderson. I wanted to scream his name, to demand answers, to shake him until the truth poured out. His gentleness, his apparent love, clashed violently with Katlyn' s venomous words. He couldn't be this cruel, could he? I was on the verge of confronting him, of tearing down this fragile facade.

Then his phone rang. He glanced at the screen, a soft, familiar smile gracing his lips. A smile I knew was reserved for me. He quickly silenced the phone, his eyes meeting mine. "Everything okay, love?"

I swallowed the soup, forcing a weak smile. "It's delicious," I lied, the words tasting like ash.

He stroked my hair. "Good. All for you, my love. Nothing but the best for my Hana and our baby."

I clenched my jaw, my fingers tightening around the spoon. He was a master of deception. Every sweet word, every gentle touch, was a lie. This soup, this moment, none of it was truly for me. It was a performance, and I was the unwitting audience. The soup, once a symbol of his love, now turned my stomach. It was bitter, an insult to my intelligence.

The entire meal was a charade. I felt like I was suffocating, every bite a struggle. The moment he excused himself to take the call in the other room, I bolted. I stumbled into the bathroom, dropping to my knees, and retched, emptying the contents of my stomach into the toilet. My body convulsed, tears streaming down my face.

When the spasms subsided, I stared into the bowl. Amongst the bile, I saw flecks of blood and tiny fragments of pills. My medication. I had barely been keeping it down. I curled into a ball on the cold tile floor, sobbing, my body wracked with a pain that went far beyond physical.

And then I heard it. A faint, muffled voice from Anderson' s phone. It was Katlyn. The sickening puzzle clicked into place. The final piece of my shattered world.

Hana Silva POV:

I never brought up that conversation in the café, nor the pills in the toilet. Anderson, meanwhile, became even busier after my pregnancy announcement. He worked late, took more trips, always with the same refrain: "It's only temporary, love. Once we have the baby, I'll be home. I promise. Just us, a family."

His words, once a comfort, now sounded like a mockery. I remembered Katlyn's chilling countdown: the "100-Day Farewell Tour" ending on my birthday. He wasn't working; he was playing out his perverse fantasy, meticulously planning his return to 'duty.' The thought twisted my gut. He was orchestrating his life like a play, with me as the forgotten prop. I laughed, a dry, humorless sound.

A few days later, a friend request popped up on my phone. Katlyn Pope. A part of me, the logical part, screamed to ignore it. But a darker, more perverse curiosity, fueled by a desperate need for understanding, took over. I accepted.

She didn't send a message. Instead, she opened her entire social media feed, a public gallery of her illicit affair with my husband. It was a brutal, curated expose.

There were pictures of them making pottery together, their hands intertwined, molding clay into grotesque shapes that mirrored my shattered expectations. Anderson, usually so reserved, was laughing freely, his head thrown back, a genuine smile illuminating his face. It was a smile I hadn't seen directed at me in years.

A post from New Year's Day: "First wishes of the year from my favorite person! So blessed. #MyLove." A photo of him, his back to the camera, holding her hand, standing on a beach. A beach I recognized from our last vacation.

Then, a series of pictures from a trip to Italy. gondola rides, gelato, ancient ruins where he held her close, whispering into her ear. He'd told me he was on a business trip to Japan. The lies piled up, each one a stone crushing my chest.

I scrolled through the entire timeline, my fingers trembling, my heart a raw, bleeding mess. Each post was a new stab, a fresh wound. Katlyn was careful not to show his face directly in most photos, but I knew his broad shoulders, the way his hair fell just so, the specific watch on his wrist. It was unmistakably him.

I mentally cross-referenced dates, recalling all the times he' d claimed to be "stuck in meetings" or "working late." Each excuse now revealed itself as a meticulously crafted lie, a cover for stolen moments with another woman.

My birthday. The day Anderson always made a big deal about. It was also, according to Katlyn's posts, their "anniversary." The audacity, the sheer disrespect, made bile rise in my throat.

I remembered the night he' d tucked me into bed, whispering sweet nothings, promising me the world. Then, before I drifted off, I' d heard his stealthy footsteps, the creak of the floorboards as he moved to the guest room. The next morning, he was gone, a text message explaining an urgent out-of-town business trip. Katlyn's feed filled in the blanks. Three days. Three days they spent in the guest room, while I, his pregnant wife, slept just yards away, blissfully unaware.

I scrolled until my thumb ached, until there were no more posts to see, no more damning evidence. The last post was dated yesterday. The "100-Day Farewell Tour" had officially concluded.

Hope, a thin, fragile thread, snapped. Despair, thick and suffocating, enveloped me. Two years. He had been living this double life for two years. The disgust I felt for him, and for myself for being so blind, was overwhelming. My body, already weakened by illness, rebelled. His touch, his very presence, now made me want to vomit. I recoiled from his casual kisses, his absentminded hugs. He, oblivious, attributed my aversion to "pregnancy hormones."

"I'll be here more now, you know. For you and the baby," he'd said just this morning, stroking my still-flat stomach. The words, meant to be comforting, sounded like a cruel joke, a twisted caricature of devotion. He was merely fulfilling his "duty," as Katlyn had so bluntly put it.

He' d once promised to clear his schedule once I got pregnant, to put me and our future first. Now, "work" was his constant excuse, a flimsy veil over his secret life. Katlyn's posts, a vibrant chronicle of their shared adventures, showed just how much "work" he was doing for her.

I was not his priority; I was merely the obligation he was returning to. The second choice, the predictable ending.

This absurd charade had dragged on for over half a month. Night after night, I lay awake, the pain in my stomach a dull ache, mirroring the agony in my heart. The cancer was relentless, a cruel companion in my solitude. He was never there. I was alone, staring at the ceiling, counting the hours until sunrise.

My belly was slowly beginning to show, a cruel reminder of the life forming within, a life I might never get to hold. I knew I couldn't wait any longer. I couldn't let this go on. I had to face him. He, at least, deserved to know the truth. He deserved to understand what he had lost.