25 Years Ago, My Husband Went Abroad… The Stress and Anxiety Led to My Cancer

Twenty-five years ago, my husband moved abroad… The stress and anxiety have left me battling cancer.

Hello. I hesitated for a long time before writing down my story, but perhaps somebody will read it and reflect… Maybe someone will see themselves in my story, and some might avoid the mistakes I made.

I wish to remain anonymous, but I need advice. Just an outsider’s perspective.

I married for love…

I was young when I fell in love with him. I was only 18, and he was 22. It was a grand, pure love without any doubts. We believed we could handle any challenge, that nothing would scare us as long as we were together.

A year after our wedding, our son was born. I was happy then… but, as it turned out, it was short-lived. Hard times set in. Money was tight; my maternity pay was minimal, and his salary barely covered the bills. We lived modestly, like many families, but my husband decided it wasn’t enough.

“I’m going to move abroad. The pay is better, and we can have a better life,” he said one day.

I begged him not to go. I insisted we could manage. That many struggled but still stayed together, supporting each other. He wouldn’t listen.

And so, I was left alone with our child.

The years went by.

I hoped he’d return, but he didn’t want to. He insisted he could earn more abroad. Just a bit longer, he said, and everything would be fine for us.

I pleaded, begged him to stay. I had found a job here, and I was earning. My parents helped with our son. We could have lived like everyone else… But he wasn’t interested in coming back.

We were left with just one child. I wanted another; I dreamed of a bigger family, but he said, “There’s no money. It’s hard enough to support one.”

Yet even with one, he didn’t want to stay. He would visit for a week or two, then leave again.

I raised our son alone, attended parent-teacher meetings, and stayed up with him when he was sick. I never told my husband our child was ill, didn’t want to worry him… and he never asked.

He never came back…

If he had been earning mountains of money, if we had lived in luxury, I might have said, “It was worth it.” But no. We had just enough to get by.

There were still loans—one for the roof, one for the car, another for a new washing machine. Just like everyone else.

Repeatedly, I tried to explain that money wasn’t everything—that our son needed a father, that I was worn out… but he didn’t hear me.

He lived there. And we lived here.

The years continued to pass.

Twenty-five years slipped by.

He returned.

But not with savings, only debts.

I cleared some of his debts by selling my grandmother’s house. He thanked me, said he loved me, that now, finally, we’d be together.

But at what cost?

Too late…

You’d think, finally, there’s the peace we longed for. A husband at home, not going away, not drinking, not straying… You’d think it’d bring joy.

Yet I realized I couldn’t breathe in our house.

To maintain peace, I had to give up on myself.

I stopped meeting friends—he didn’t like them. He said he didn’t have friends, so I didn’t need them either. He never forbade me, but his looks made me lose the desire to go out.

I stopped wearing nice clothes. He disliked bright outfits, makeup, heels. He said they didn’t suit a woman our age.

I stopped laughing, telling funny stories, dreaming.

I lived. Worked. Cleaned. Cooked. Slept.

Once or twice a year, we’d go on holiday. Just the two of us. No friends, no groups. Because he didn’t like anyone.

And I endured it all. Everything.

My body couldn’t cope…

This life—endless routine, tension, loneliness—broke me.

I became ill.

The diagnosis was grim—cancer.

My world collapsed in a single day.

I don’t know how much time I have left.

But I know this: if I could turn back time, I wouldn’t live like this again.