My Husband Left 25 Years Ago… The Stress Made Me Ill

Hello. I’ve been debating whether to share my story, but perhaps someone will read it and reflect… Maybe someone will see themselves in it, or prevent making the mistakes I have.

I wish to remain anonymous, but I need advice. Just an objective point of view.

I married for love… I was young when I fell for him. I was just 18, and he was 22. It was a profound, genuine love with no doubts. We believed we could tackle any hardship, that nothing was daunting as long as we were together.

A year after our wedding, our son was born. I was happy then… but it was short-lived. Tough times arrived. Money was tight, my maternity pay was meager, and his salary barely covered the bills. We lived modestly, like many families do, but my husband decided it wasn’t enough.

“I’m going to move overseas. The pay is better there, we could have a better life,” he said one day.

I begged him not to leave. I insisted we’d manage. That many struggle but stay 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 could earn more abroad. That with just a little more time, everything would be alright for us.

I pleaded with him to stay. I had found work here, making my own income. My parents helped with our son. We could have managed like everyone else… But he wouldn’t come back.

We stayed with just the one child. I wanted another, dreamed of a big family, but he said, “We can’t afford more than one.”

And yet, he still didn’t want to stay with the one we had. He would visit for a week or two, then leave again.

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

He never came back… If he had earned substantial amounts, if we’d lived in luxury, I might have said, “It was worth it.” But no. We had just enough for a reasonable existence.

There were still loans—to fix the roof, buy a car, a new washing machine. Just like everyone else.

I tried repeatedly to explain to him that money isn’t everything, that our son needed a father, that I was worn out… but he wouldn’t hear it.

He lived there. And we lived here.

Time flew by.

25 years passed.

He returned.

But not with savings, with debts.

I paid off part of his debt 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… It seemed like the peace I had longed for. My husband was home, didn’t drink, didn’t wander… It seemed I should be happy.

But suddenly, I felt suffocated in this house.

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

I stopped meeting friends—he didn’t like them. He said he had no friends, so I shouldn’t need them either. He didn’t forbid it, but his look made my desire to go anywhere disappear.

I stopped wearing pretty clothes. He didn’t like bright outfits, makeup, high heels. He said such things didn’t suit a woman our age.

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

I lived. Worked. Cleaned. Cooked. Slept.

Once or twice a year, we would go on a vacation. Of course, just the two of us. No friends, no social gatherings. Because he liked no one.

And I endured it all. Everything.

But my body couldn’t take it anymore…

This relentless routine, tension, and loneliness broke me.

I fell ill.

The diagnosis was terrifying. 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.