The 99th Time We Fell Apart

My first life ended alone in a hospital room, not with a bang, but with the quiet hum of an IV.

My husband, Ethan Lester, had spent months tearing me down, flaunting an affair, and relentlessly pursuing a divorce.

It was only after death, in an empty void, that the shattering truth unfolded: Ethan had pancreatic cancer, a secret burden he bore alone.

His cruelty was a desperate, twisted act of love, a brutal attempt to push me away so I wouldn't witness his agonizing decline.

He even took his own life after my funeral, convinced I'd find happiness with my ex.