The Day He Asked For Divorce Was The Day I Was Dying Chapter 01
The day I was diagnosed with stage four pancreatic cancer, my first thought was how to keep it from
Sam Bennett. I didn’t want him to worry.
I came home and made his favorite beef stew, letting it simmer for three hours, just like I had for
the past ten years.
I went to his office to call him for dinner, but he wasn’t there. His computer screen was on.
A note file titled “Fresh Start” was open on the monitor.
[First item: Tear out the rose bush by the backyard fence. Juliette is allergic.
Second item: Get rid of all the neutral clothes in the closet. Juliette likes bright colors.
Third item: Finalize the divorce by the thirteenth of next month.]
The thirteenth was my birthday. It was also the date the doctors had given me, my estimated time
left.
At the very bottom, a smaller line: [If she threatens suicide, call the police. Don’t let her make a
scene at the new place.]
The smell of beef stew drifted in from the kitchen, but I felt nothing but cold.
I walked out of the office to find Sam by the front door, putting on his shoes without looking up.
“Why are you just standing there? The stew, Juliette wants some tonight. I’ll pack it up and take it to
her.”
I looked at his face. Suddenly, he felt like a stranger.
I had made that stew for ten years, and this was probably the last pot.
When I ladled the stew into the thermos, steam burned the back of my hand, leaving a red mark.
Sam waited by the dining room door, checking his watch three times.
There was a time when he would sit down for half a bowl, no matter how busy he
“Grace, you nailed the salt today.”
was, and
say,
Now he just rushed me. “Seal it tight. Juliette has a weak stomach, she can’t eat it cold.”
I lowered my head and twisted on the lid.
“Sam, do you remember what date the thirteenth of next month falls on?”
He paused for a second as he took the thermos, then his face went back to normal.
“Your birthday. I didn’t forget.”
I looked at his face, trying to find some trace of the warmth he used to have.
We had been married for ten years. He had always had a good memory.
He remembered I didn’t like cilantro. He remembered I got cold easily.
But now, the only thing he remembered was to clear me out of his life before that day.
“What do you want to do for it this year?” he asked, his voice flat.
“Nothing.”
He gave me a look, his tone softening just a little. “Come on. Once things settle down, I’ll make it up
to you.”
I smiled and didn’t say anything else.
His phone rang.
A woman’s voice came through, too soft for me to hear the words. But I saw Sam’s face relax, line by line.
“Yeah, I’ve got the stew. Don’t take any of your pills without eating. I’ll be right there.”
The door closed. The house suddenly felt empty.
There was still half a pot of stew left. I spooned out a small bowl and lifted it to my mouth, but my
stomach turned violently.
I leaned over the sink and threw up for a long time, until nothing came up but bitter bile.
My phone screen lit up. A reminder from the hospital nurse.
[Ms. Holloway, your follow-up treatment consultation is tomorrow at 9 a.m. Please bring a family member. Your case is progressing quickly. We strongly recommend immediate admission.]
I stared at the words “family member” for a long time.
Sam was a surgeon. He knew better than anyone what stage four pancreatic cancer meant.
But I couldn’t tell him. Not because I was afraid he’d find it a burden. But because I was terrified of
seeing the look on his face that said I was holding him back.
I would rather have him hate me than spend my final days knowing he felt trapped.
In the wooden box under the TV stand in the living room, I kept our mementos: our marriage certificate, old concert ticket stubs, a photo from our first move, and the little notes Sam had written me over the years.
I picked up the one on top.
[Grace, once I make associate surgeon, we’ll go to the coast for a whole month.]
[The roses by the fence are blooming. I’ll put one on your nightstand.]
The handwriting was his. The promises had been real, once.
But people change. Time has a way of wearing down even the best heart.
At ten o’clock that night, Sam came home.
He was quiet, standing by the dining table and drinking glass after glass of water.
This wasn’t like him. Sam was always decisive. But tonight, even putting down his glass seemed to
take an effort.
After a long moment, he sat down across from me.
“Grace, we need to talk.”
I looked at him calmly.
He pulled a document from his briefcase and slid it across the table.
Divorce papers. Neatly typed. Asset division already spelled out.
“I want a divorce.”
As he said the words, his shoulders seemed to loosen, like he had finally put down a weight.
I looked at the papers. The pages were fresh, still warm from the printer.
“Is it that urgent?”
“Dragging this out isn’t good for anyone. Grace, all that’s left between us is habit. Juliette just got
out of the hospital. She’s not stable. I don’t want to make her wait any longer.”
I looked up. “What about me?”
Sam frowned. “You’ve always been the strong one.”
I had heard those words before. The day my father died, he had said the same thing.
When I had my miscarriage, he was on call in the ER. He came the next day, touched my forehead,
and said, “Grace, you’re stronger than I give you credit for.”
I realized then that strong people are allowed less tenderness.
I closed the divorce papers and pushed them back across the table. “I’ll sign them on the
thirteenth.”
Impatience flickered in Sam’s eyes. “Does it have to be that day?”
I looked down and said nothing.
By that day, I might not need to sign anything at all.
He thought I was just being stubborn and didn’t push further. He just took the papers back to his
office.
Half an hour later, I heard him on the phone, his voice low. “She didn’t agree. It’s fine. I’ll handle it.
It’ll be done by the thirteenth.”
I stood outside the door, then slowly slid to the floor, leaning against the wall.
The pain in my stomach spread, slow and deep, like someone was twisting a knife.
The next morning, I went to the hospital alone.
The line at the admitting window was long.
When it was my turn, the nurse checked the system. “Where’s your family member?”
I smiled. “He’s busy.”
The nurse looked up at me, her eyes soft with something like pity.
“Ms. Holloway, you really shouldn’t make these decisions by yourself.”
Before I could answer, a familiar voice came from behind me.
“Dr. Bennett, Juliette’s test results are back. She’s recovering nicely.”
I turned.
At the other end of the hall, Sam was walking out of a consulting room with Juliette Moreau. Juliette was holding her report, smiling up at him as she talked.
A gust of wind flipped my own medical file open to the diagnosis page.