A Quarter Century of Separation Led to My Illness

Twenty-five years ago, my husband moved abroad… The stress and worry made me fall ill with cancer.

Hello. I’ve debated for a long time whether to share my story, hoping that someone might read it and reflect… Maybe see themselves, or avoid the mistakes I made.

I wish to remain anonymous, but I need advice. Simply an outside perspective.

I married for love…
I was young when I fell for him. I was just 18, and he was 22. It was a deep, pure love, without any doubts. We thought we could face any difficulty and that nothing could harm us if we stuck together.

A year after our wedding, we had a son. Back then, I was happy… but as it turned out, not for long. Hard times hit. Money was tight; my maternity payments were minimal, and his salary barely covered our bills. We lived modestly, like many families, but my husband decided it wasn’t enough.

“I’ll move abroad. There’s more money to be made, and we can have a better life,” he announced one day.

I begged him not to go. I insisted we could manage. Others were struggling too, but they stayed together, supporting each other. He didn’t listen.

And so, I was left alone with our child.

Year followed year.

I hoped he’d return, but he didn’t want to. He said he’d earn more abroad. That just a little longer, and things would be fine for us.

I pleaded, begged him to stay. There was already work here; I was earning as well. My parents helped with the child. We could have lived like everyone else… But he refused to return.

We remained with one child. I wanted another, dreamed of a large family, but he said:

“We can barely afford the one we have.”

But even with our only child, he didn’t want to be around. He came for a week or two, then left again.

I raised my son single-handedly, attended school meetings, stayed up with him in the nights when he was ill. I never told my husband when our child was sick, to avoid worrying him… and he never asked.

He never came back…
Had he been earning fortunes, had we been living in luxury, I might have said, “It was worth it.” But no. The money was just enough for a decent existence.

There were still loans—for the roof, for the car, for a new washing machine. Like everyone else.

I tried countless times to explain that money wasn’t everything, that our son needed a father, that I was exhausted… but he couldn’t hear me.

He lived there. We lived here.

Years slipped by.

Twenty-five years passed.

He came back.

But not with savings, with debts.

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

But at what cost?

Too late…
You’d think the long-awaited peace had arrived. My husband at home, not leaving, not drinking, not out with friends… You’d think I should be happy.

But I suddenly realized that in this house, I couldn’t breathe.

To maintain tranquility, I had to give up who I was.

I stopped seeing my friends—he didn’t like them. He said he had no friends, so I didn’t need them either. He didn’t forbid it, but he looked at me in a way that made any desire to go out vanish.

I stopped wearing nice clothes. He didn’t like bright outfits, makeup, heels. Told me it didn’t suit a woman of our age.

I no longer laughed, shared funny stories, or dreamed.

I lived. I worked. I cleaned. I cooked. I slept.

Once or twice a year, we went on holiday. Of course, just us. Without friends, without company. Because he didn’t like anyone.

And I endured it all. Everything.

But my body couldn’t take it…
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 one thing: if I could turn back time, I wouldn’t live this way.

I would never allow myself to be a shadow.