I Kicked My Husband Out after What He Did While I was Caring for My Sick Mother

I assumed my husband would keep everything together until I returned home after I departed to take care of my dying mother. Rather, I entered an unimaginable nightmare.

This is something I never thought I would write, but here I am. I’m Stella, a 25-year-old woman, and I’ve been married to my 27-year-old husband, Evan, for two years. Five years have passed since we started dating. Even though Evan and I were young when we got married, it seemed appropriate.

Both of us had steady careers, enough money to buy a modest suburban townhouse, and we were eager to start a future together.

We had even begun the process of conceiving. One evening, when I was sitting at the kitchen table with my planner open and making notes on potential timeframes, Evan leaned across the table and stated, half-seriously, half-jokingly, “We’ll have the cutest kid on the block.” I remember smiling as I did this.

I threw a grape at him while laughing. It was jovial and optimistic, and it seemed as though our lives were finally going to start.

But with a single phone call, everything fell apart.

My mother, who is also my best friend and my pillar of support, was told she had stage four cancer. She was given six months by the physicians.

Six months.

My phone was still in my hand as I sat on the couch, trembling so violently that I was having trouble breathing. Evan put his arm around my shoulders and sat down beside me right away.

“Stel,” he whispered delicately, “you must leave. She needs you.

I sobbed into his shirt as I collapsed into him. “I can’t leave you,” I said to myself. “How about us? How about—”

As he stroked my hair, he interjected, “We’ll figure it out,” “Go spend time with her. Don’t be concerned about me.

So I did. To care for her, I packed a bag and returned to my old home, which was three hours away. I am her only child, and my dad has been absent for years. No one else was present.

Those were hard months. I listened to her cry at night when the pain became unbearable, sat through every chemotherapy session holding her hand, drove her to every treatment, and made myself smile every morning just so she would know that I was strong enough to carry us both.

Occasionally, she would whisper to me, “Stella, you should go home.” You’re too young to stay in hospitals all day.”

And each time, I would shake my head. Mom, don’t even begin. I won’t abandon you.”

Evan frequently checked in. Every other day, we talked on the phone. He always sounded encouraging when he told me that he was “keeping busy” and “managing the house” because he missed me. He sounded worn out, as if he were under pressure. I assumed it was simply the pressure of our separation and the distance.

“Promise me you’re eating?” During our calls, I would inquire.

He would laugh. “Yes, indeed, don’t be concerned. Cereal isn’t enough to sustain me. I’ve even picked up some cooking skills.”

I would grin to myself, appreciating that he was handling things and that he saw how crucial this was. He never came to see my mother or me, though.

Not once. He constantly gave some explanation when I asked, such as “I don’t want to take away from your time with her,” work deadlines, or shifts with insufficient staff. I believed him because I wanted to.

I lost my mother six weeks ago.

I finally drove back after closing the house and completing her estate. I assumed it would be a relief to enter our home. After months of bearing everything alone, I pictured myself lying against Evan and sobbing into his chest—finally allowing someone else to support me.

I was the first to notice the fragrance. It tasted nasty, like perspiration and grease combined with stale beer. As I entered, my stomach churned.

There were pizza boxes piled on the coffee table, filthy mugs all over the place, dust on the TV stand thick enough to write in, and a dark stain on the rug I had carefully chosen the previous year. The living room was in ruins.

“Evan?” My voice cracked as I called.

I started to say something, but then I saw something that made my stomach turn. He wasn’t by himself.

As I entered the living room, I noticed two men sitting on our couch, sipping drinks while the picture frames shook to the music. A drink raised like a prize, Evan stood shirtless in the center of it all. He reminded me more of someone I would have shunned in college than my husband.

The first person to notice me was a tall, blond man wearing a watch that flashed in the light. He gave the other an elbow. He mumbled, “Uh, dude,” “Company.”

Startled, Evan turned around and tried to smile. “My dear! You’re ahead of schedule.

I put my bag down. “Early? I laid my mother to rest.

Clearing his throat, the taller man did so. He said, “We should go,” after suddenly being sober.

Evan dismissed him with a wave. “No, it’s okay. That’s Jason, and here is Mike, Stella. These are my new coworkers. We’ve been letting off steam, you know. Professional relationships. “Networking.”

I surveyed the space. The windowsill was lined with empty bottles. On the sofa table was a platter of congealed cheese. Something crimson was smeared on the wall near the thermostat. I resisted the need to gag.

Jason put on his jacket and stood up. Silently, “I’m sorry for your loss,” he said. “We didn’t know you were coming home today.”

Mike raised his hands as if to offer assistance, then changed his mind. He went on, “Yeah, uh, condolences,” “We’ll, uh, get out of your hair.”

As I said, “Please do,”

They moved by me and headed for the door. Jason hesitated. He said, “Evan, man, I’ll text you,” then gave me a clumsy nod before sneaking out. Mike trailed behind, disconnecting the speaker and tucking it under his arm as the bass faded.

There was a profound hush in the house. Evan’s voice grew softer as he stepped toward me. “Stel, I can explain.”

I crossed my arms. “Try.”

He glanced at everything but me. “You were missed. I was unsure of how to respond to it. After cooking for one person and returning home to an empty bed, I could only hear my own thoughts. I required a diversion. It wasn’t what it appeared to be, I promise.

I remarked, “It looked like a party,” “A lot of parties.”

The back of his neck was rubbed. “It made things easier for me. I was also in mourning.

“Grieving,” I said again, focusing on the rubbish that had overflowed. “While I fed Mom soup, I sat beside her bed. while I selected a coffin and completed paperwork. You informed me that work was too busy when I pleaded with you to come visit.

He winced. “I didn’t want to interrupt your mom and you. I believed I was allowing you some space.

“You gave yourself a loophole,” I replied. “You made the simple decision. You made this decision.

He walked a step further. “Let me fix it, please. I’ll tidy up, I’ll—”

“Stop,” I commanded. “Enter the bedroom. Take a duffle bag.

He blinked. “Wait, what?”

I said, “Take a bag,” in a startlingly steady voice now. “You’re heading out. “Tonight.”

“No, Stella. Avoid doing this. I cherish you.

I moved past him, pulled his black duffle from the top shelf, and opened the closet. At his chest, I threw it. “Bring the essentials. You can acquire the remainder by returning later. You’re not going to sleep here.

He looked at me as if he was unfamiliar with me. “You’re serious.”

“I am.”

His mouth trembled. As though it had just appeared, he glanced down at his naked chest and the beer he was still holding. The bottle clinked against another when he placed it on the table. He went to the bedroom without saying another word.

Drawers opened and closed. The rod was scratched by hangers. Ten minutes later, he came out wearing pants and a hoodie, with his bag draped over his shoulder and his shoes unlaced.

He said, “Where am I supposed to go?”

When I said, “I don’t care,” Give Jason or Mike a call. Call the person who has been with you the entire time.

He took a swallow. “I messed up.”

“Yeah,” I replied. “You did.”

He lingered for a long time at the entrance. “Stel, please.”

I gazed at the stain on the rug I had selected in the spring of previous year. “Goodbye, Evan.”

He walked out into the night after opening the door. I let out a breath for the first time in months as it clicked shut behind him.

The calls began the following morning. His mother, who has a kind voice that gets sharper when she’s angry, called first. “I heard you begged Evan to leave, Stella, honey. He was also in mourning. Sometimes men don’t know how to express it. Be kind to him.

Tracing a ring left by a beer can, I sat at the kitchen table. “Patience appears to be grace. My living room doesn’t appear to be a place for parties.

She persisted in saying, “He needed support,” “Caregiver burnout affects both partners.”

“Then he should have come to me,” I replied. “I invited him to come see me. He decided not to.

Brielle, his sister, who always speaks quickly, came next. “Stel, he’s a mess. “I panicked,” he said. Without you, he claimed, the place felt haunted. He claimed to be attempting to stay occupied. At the very least, could you grab coffee with him?

“I can’t,” I said. “Not now.”

Next is my aunt, who is fascinated with everyone’s affairs. “Divorce is too extreme,” she declared. “People make mistakes when they’re hurting.”

“I planned a funeral at 25,” I informed them. “My husband sent me excuses when I asked for him. He had strangers on my couch when I got home. It’s not an error. That’s a decision.

I laid my phone down and looked at the mess after the third call. I opened the house’s windows.

I kept cleaning until my hands hurt, the rooms smelled of soap and lemon, and the stain on the rug was barely noticeable. I placed the picture of Mom smiling with her head flung back that I had discovered beneath a pile of old mail on the mantle. I observed as the candle’s flame stabilized after I ignited it. The silence was comforting.

Evan texted that evening. One by one, the messages arrived.

I apologize.

I was foolish.

I had no idea how I would manage without you.

Talk to me, please.

I put the phone down and turned off the screen.

I played it all over again in the silence that ensued. Would things have been different if I had remained with Mom for an additional three months, six months, or a year? The bottles would continue to accumulate.

On my couch, the strangers would still chuckle. Even now, he would claim to be “managing the house,” as if it were a noble endeavor. The truth sank like a stone into my chest. Without me, he hadn’t been lost. I was gone from him.

In the morning, I gave a locksmith a call. It felt like closure when the new lock clicked.

Weeks passed. I kept myself occupied with paperwork, chores, and the tedious, laborious things that bereavement dishes forth. I went on lengthy walks when the house seemed too big. I got to know the neighbors’ dog names.

Mom taught me to make soup with lemon juice and thyme, and I ate it at the table while her picture was next to me. I used to cry sometimes. I occasionally watched a dumb sitcom just to listen to the conversation.

I then scheduled a session of bereavement therapy. Dr. Mira, the therapist, appeared to be in her fifties, wearing a cardigan that transformed her office into a living space and had gentle eyes. She inquired about the last day, the sluggish days, Mom, and the diagnosis. She listened intently and only gave me Kleenex when I asked for them.

Gently, “Tell me about Evan,” she asked.

I explained the parties, the excuses, and the calls to her. I said, “I keep wondering if I overreacted,” “Everyone says he was grieving, too.”

She gave a nod. Perhaps he was. People seek out simple relief while they are grieving. Grief, however, also reveals your character. More important than how someone speaks while the lights are on is how they act when they are not.

With that, I sat. “I wanted a partner.”

“You still do,” she remarked. “And you deserve one.”

She leaned forward at the conclusion of the session. “When people show you who they are in your darkest moments, believe them.”

When my hands felt empty, I carried that line home like a pebble in my pocket—something tiny.

It was six weeks later. The house remained tidy, quiet, and serene. The stench of old beer was gone from the couch where I sat. On Thursdays, as a little ritual, I took fresh flowers home and placed them next to Mom’s picture.

Evan continued to text, alternating between apologies, fury, and pleas. His mom gave me another call to see if I had changed my mind. I wished them all well, I told her. I meant it.

I stood in the entryway one evening and gazed back at the rooms I had cleaned as the sun began to set and a rosy glow appeared in the windows. I reflected on the life I had been attempting to create and the one I could still create. I didn’t feel victorious. I felt stable.

Someone who shows up is something I deserve. Someone who not only declares, “I love you,” but also shows it when it matters. I trusted Evan when he revealed himself to me, even though he failed the most important test of our marriage.