Icame home from chemotherapy to find my husband kissing his mistress on our sofa. He laughed at me and gave me an hour to leave “with nothing.” But karma had other plans, and in less than 24 hours, he would learn what “nothing” really meant.
My legs could barely carry me up the front steps. Three rounds of chemo do that to you. The hospital wristband was still stuck to me, a constant reminder of everything I’d been fighting.
My husband, Leo, had promised me something that morning: “Don’t worry, darling. Focus on getting better. I’ll take care of everything.”
I believed him. After five years of marriage, why wouldn’t I? Big mistake.
A couple holding hands | Source: Unsplash
The key turned easily in the lock. Too easily, actually. Leo usually kept the chain locked during the day. But that day, soft music drifted through our living room. The kind we used to dance to in the kitchen on Sunday mornings.
My heart raced for a second. Maybe she had planned something sweet for my return.
Then I saw them.
My husband was entangled with another woman on our sofa. They were both fully clothed, but they were wrapped around each other like teenagers who thought they owned the world, their lips locked in the kind of passionate kiss I hadn’t had in months.
“Leo, what is…? My God…”, my voice broke like glass.
A couple kissing on a sofa | Source: Pexels
She turned toward me slowly. There was no shame or panic in her eyes. Only irritation, as if I had interrupted her favorite television program.
“I didn’t expect you to come back so soon,” he said, disengaging from her without any urgency. “Since you’re here, let’s keep it simple. You have one hour to pack your things and leave.”
The room spun around me. “What? But you promised to take care of me. You swore it.”
“I’m done babysitting a sick wife! I didn’t marry you to be a nurse. I married you to live my life. And I refuse to waste another minute with a sick woman like you.”
The woman next to me giggled, as if my pain was a private joke between them.
An elegant woman sitting on the sofa | Source: Pexels
“Did I understand correctly, Betty, darling?” Leo turned to her with a smile I used to think was only mine.
Betty. So she had a name. She’d been in my house, on my couch, stealing my husband away while I fought for my life.
“You’re absolutely right, darling,” Betty’s voice dripped with fake sweetness. “Some women just don’t know when to let go.”
My knees wanted to buckle. Tears stung behind my eyes. But there was something burning inside me even more, something Leo had never seen before. Rage. Pure, red-hot rage.
“One hour, Victoria,” he checked his watch as if he were timing a parking meter. “Don’t make it more difficult than necessary.”
An angry man pointing his finger | Source: Midjourney
I packed in silence, gathering clothes, photos, and my grandmother’s jewelry. Each item felt heavier than the last, not from the fatigue of chemo, but from the weight of betrayal.
Leo was watching me from the doorway. “You know, you’ll leave with nothing when we get divorced. This house is mine. The accounts are mine. You should have thought about that before you got sick.”
I zipped up my suitcase, straightened my shoulders, and looked him straight in the eyes.
“We’ll see about that, Leo.”
“What does that mean?”
A woman frowning | Source: Freepik
I had the suitcase passed in front of him and Betty, who was now lying on my sofa as if she owned the place.
“It means that karma has a curious way of balancing things out.”
Leo let out a harsh laugh. “Karma? You’re leaving here with NOTHING but a suitcase and cancer, Victoria. What exactly do you think karma’s going to do for you?”
Betty chimed in from the sofa. “Maybe she thinks a fairy godmother is going to swoop in and save her!”
“Keep talking,” I said calmly, my hand on the doorknob. “Time will tell.”
“Time?” Leo laughed. “Your time is running out, darling!”
“We’ll see about that,” I said, walking away.
A woman holding a door handle | Source: Pexels
The hotel room was small but clean. I sat on the edge of the bed and opened my laptop. Years ago, I’d installed small, hidden security cameras throughout the house after a series of burglaries in our neighborhood. Leo had traveled so much for work back then that he hadn’t even noticed them.
The security camera app loaded slowly, but when it did, my heart almost stopped.
Hours of recordings showed Leo and Betty in my living room, the kitchen, and our bedroom. But it wasn’t just the infidelity that made my blood boil… it was what they were saying.
“Anyway, he’ll be gone soon,” Leo’s voice came over the loudspeakers. “Cancer patients don’t usually live long.”
Betty’s laughter was like nails on a chalkboard. “And then you’ll have the house and all his money. He’s been paying your bills for years, hasn’t he?”
A small camera | Source: Pexels
“That stupid prenuptial agreement he made me sign won’t matter when I’m dead,” Leo said, opening a bottle of wine. My wine. “I’ll play the grieving widower. Everyone will pity me.”
“What if he doesn’t die?”
“Then I’ll make sure she knows she’s not welcome here. I’ve already blocked her from the joint account. She has nowhere to go.”
I paused the video; my hands weren’t trembling from weakness, but from fury. Leo thought he had all the cards, but he’d forgotten one small detail.
A woman holding her phone | Source: Pexels
The next morning, my phone rang nonstop. The night before, I’d posted a short clip online: just Leo and Betty laughing about my cancer and how “I’d be gone soon anyway”—I even tagged my family’s lawyer. The video had gone viral overnight.
“Victoria, honey, I just saw the video,” my sister’s voice was filled with tears. “I’m so sorry. What can I do?”
“Nothing. I’ve got it under control.”
My lawyer’s voice was clear and professional when I called. “The prenuptial agreement is very clear, Victoria. Infidelity during a serious illness voids his right to marital property. The house is yours, the accounts are yours. He gets nothing.”
“How long?”
“I can hand in the papers today.”
A man talking on the phone | Source: Pexels
By midday, my phone had a thousand notifications. I was getting comments from strangers who were just as upset as I was.
“Stay strong, queen.”
“Take back that house.”
“He deserves to rot.”
At two in the afternoon, Leo called. “Victoria, we need to talk. What did you do?”
“No, Leo. We really have nothing to talk about.”
That afternoon he showed up at my hotel alone, with Betty nowhere to be seen. The lobby was packed with business travelers and families checking in—the perfect audience for what happened next.
People in a hotel lobby | Source: Unsplash
Leo fell to his knees on the marble floor, tears streaming down his face as if he’d just discovered a gift for acting. “I’m sorry, darling. I’ll take care of you, I promise. I’ll be better. Please come home. Delete that message. Please.”
People stopped walking, took out their phones, and started recording.
I looked at this man who had thrown me away like trash just 24 hours before. This man who had counted on my death for his financial freedom.
“You had a wife who would have walked through hell for you,” my voice echoed through the lobby. “Instead, you pushed me into the fire. Now burn in it.”
I walked away, leaving him kneeling on that cold marble floor.
A shaken man | Source: Midjourney
The divorce was swift, thanks to my airtight evidence and a crystal-clear prenuptial agreement. Leo’s credit was frozen, his reputation ruined, and Betty vanished as soon as her money disappeared.
I got my house, my belongings, and my life back. Leo got exactly what he had asked for: his freedom.
But freedom has its advantages. It doesn’t pay the rent when your credit is in the gutter. It doesn’t warm the bed when your lover runs off with someone who actually has money. And it doesn’t fix your reputation when the entire internet knows what kind of man you really are.
***
Six months later, I was in remission, my hair was growing back, and I had regained my strength.
Leo lived in a studio apartment on the other side of town, working at a car dealership because no one else would hire him.
A man in an apartment | Source: Unsplash
Sometimes I walk past his apartment complex, not because I miss him, but because I want to remember that I survived cancer and an unfaithful husband in the same year.
I fought two battles and won both, and the woman who entered that house weak and confident is not the same one who came out strong and victorious.
Last week, Leo sent me a message. “I made a mistake. Can we talk?”
I deleted it without replying.
Because this is what I learned: You can’t fix a man who abandons his dying wife, nor can you make someone love again so they regain their decency, nor can you forgive betrayal. But you can choose yourself, your worth, and build a life that doesn’t include people who see your pain as their opportunity.
A woman looking at her phone | Source: Pexels
I may have lost my hair, my health, and my marriage that year, but I gained something far more valuable: my self-respect, my strength, and my home. The very same home Leo thought was his, the very house where he planned my funeral while I fought for my life.
Now it’s mine. Legally, financially, and spiritually mine.
And every morning, when I wake up in my bed, in my room, in my house, I remember something beautiful: Sometimes the best revenge isn’t revenge at all. It’s simply living well while the people who tried to destroy you realize that instead they destroyed themselves.
A woman stretches her arms while sitting on the bed | Source: Pexels
Leo wanted his freedom. I gave it to him, permanently.
And me? I’m free too. Free from a man who saw my illness as his escape route. Free from someone who mistook my love for his weakness. And free to build something real with someone who deserves it.
“Karma doesn’t need your help,” I told my sister over coffee last Sunday. “It just needs time.”
And it turns out that time was the one thing Leo never thought he would have enough of.
A gift box with a card bearing the word
If this story touched you, here’s another one about a conceited husband who wanted a share of his wife’s success: My husband and his family used to make fun of my gardening hobby and tell me to get a real job. Now that it’s profitable, they’re asking for a cut.
This work is inspired by real events and people, but has been fictionalized for creative purposes. Names, characters, and details have been changed to protect privacy and enhance the narrative. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
The author and publisher do not guarantee the accuracy of events or character portrayals, and are not responsible for any misinterpretations. This story is provided “as is,” and the opinions expressed are those of the characters and do not reflect the views of the author or publisher.
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