The house was too quiet.

Noah had just fallen asleep in my arms. I gently laid him in the playpen and turned back toward the kitchen. That’s when Michael spoke.

“I’m leaving.”

His voice was flat. Final. Like he’d already packed that sentence days ago.

He stood by the door with his suitcase. The car was probably already running. His shoes were clean, like he hadn’t lived here long.

I didn’t cry. I didn’t beg.

I didn’t even flinch.

I just looked at him. Really looked. And in that moment, I didn’t see my husband. I saw a man already half-vanished.

“Alright,” I said.

Then I turned, opened the kitchen drawer, and took out the envelope I had placed there the night before.

“But before you go, just one thing.”

He looked at me, confused.

“Read this,” I said, handing it to him. “In the car. That’s all I ask.”

I didn’t wait for a reply. I kissed Noah on the forehead and walked to the sink to wash a dish that wasn’t dirty. Just something to keep my hands busy.

He left. Just like he said he would.

He didn’t know what was in that envelope.

He didn’t know I’d been going to the hospital every Tuesday afternoon for chemotherapy.

He didn’t know I’d been diagnosed with early-stage lymphoma.

He didn’t know how I covered the medical bills with my freelance projects, how I taught Noah to say “Mama” between nausea spells, how I smiled through the pain because I didn’t want him to stay out of guilt.

He didn’t ask.

So I didn’t tell him.