Once inside, Derek sat me gently on the living room couch and wrapped a blanket around my shoulders. His hands shook with anger. Kara hovered at the doorway, arms crossed defensively.
“You left my mother outside after chemo?” Derek said, each word clipped and vibrating with disbelief. “Are you out of your mind?”
“She didn’t call me,” Kara snapped.
“I called you,” he fired back. “I told you the hospital changed her schedule and asked you to be here when she got home!”
Kara’s face drained of color. “I—I didn’t check my phone.”
“That’s not an excuse.” He looked at her like he didn’t recognize her anymore.
I cleared my throat softly. “Please, Derek. I don’t want to cause trouble.”
But the truth was, this wasn’t new.
Over the past few months, I’d caught the strange looks Kara gave me. The tension. The clipped responses whenever I asked a simple question. But I pushed it aside, telling myself treatment was making me overly sensitive.
Now, watching her outright hostility—there was no denying it anymore.
Derek paced, running his hands through his hair. “Mom, why didn’t you sit down on the steps? Or call me?”
“I tried,” I whispered. “My phone died.”
Kara muttered, “Always some excuse.”
Derek spun toward her. “What did you just say?”
“I’m tired, Derek!” she exploded. “Your mother is ruining our lives! I take care of everything while she lies around sick. I can’t do it anymore!”
I flinched at the word sick—the way she spit it out like a flaw.
“You think cancer is laziness?” Derek said in disbelief.
Kara’s expression hardened. “I think it’s not my responsibility.”
“And you think it’s okay to treat her like this because… why? You don’t like changing her bedsheets? Heating up soup?” His voice cracked. “She raised me alone, Kara. She worked double shifts to put me through college. She deserves kindness—not cruelty.”
Tears pricked my eyes, but I stayed silent, not wanting to fuel the fire.
Kara’s lips twisted. “This house isn’t big enough for all of us. She’s making everything stressful. I can’t sleep. I can’t relax. I want my life back.”
Derek stared at her long and hard, something dying behind his eyes.
“This is who you really are?” he said quietly.
Kara didn’t answer.
He nodded slowly. “Okay. Then I’ll make this simple.”
He walked to the closet, grabbed her suitcase, dropped it at her feet, and said, “Get out.”
The room froze.
Even I stared at him in shock. “Derek, no—”
“Yes.” His voice trembled. “If my wife can’t show basic humanity to the woman who raised me, then she won’t treat the mother of my future kids any better.”
Kara’s face contorted. “You’re choosing her over me?”
“I’m choosing decency,” he said.
And just like that—she grabbed her things and stormed out.
The neighbors, still lingering on porches, watched in stunned silence as the door slammed behind her.
For the next few days, the house was strangely quiet. Derek took time off work to stay with me, helping with meals, medications, and the little things illness makes overwhelming—opening pill bottles, holding onto my arm as I walked, brushing loose hair from my shoulders.
Every night, he would check on me, bringing tea and asking if I felt warm enough. I could see the guilt in his eyes, the anger simmering beneath the surface.
“I’m sorry I left you alone with her,” he said one evening as he adjusted a blanket around me.
“You couldn’t have known,” I told him gently.
But inside, I wondered. Had he ignored the warning signs too?
Three days after the fight, Kara sent a long text message—not an apology, but a list of complaints, focusing entirely on herself. Derek deleted it without reading past the first line.
“We’re done,” he said simply.
He filed for a legal separation the next day.
The neighborhood buzzed with speculation, but no one confronted us directly. Instead, they brought homemade casseroles and warm bread to the doorstep. One elderly neighbor, Mrs. Thompson, squeezed my hands and whispered, “You deserve better, sweetheart.”
For the first time in months, I felt cared for outside hospital walls.
One afternoon, Derek sat beside me with a folder in his hands.
“I’ve been thinking,” he said, clearing his throat. “You can’t keep going back and forth between home and the hospital. And I don’t want you stressing about living arrangements.”
I frowned. “What do you mean?”
He smiled softly. “Mom… I bought us a new place.”
I blinked. “What?”
He opened the folder, revealing floor plans, photos of a ranch-style home with a big porch and sunlight streaming through wide windows. A property just outside town—quiet, peaceful, perfect for recovery.
“You and me,” he said. “Plenty of space. A guest room for when you feel sick, and a sunroom because I know you love plants. No stairs. No stress. Just… family.”
My vision blurred as tears welled up. “Derek… this is too much.”
“No,” he said. “Letting you suffer alone—that was too much. This is the bare minimum.”
I squeezed his hand. “You’ve grown into a good man.”
He kissed the top of my head. “Because I had a good mom.”
Moving day arrived quickly. As we drove away, I looked back at the old house only once. Not with sadness, but with relief.
The new home was bright and warm, sunlight pouring through every room. Derek carried in a rocking chair he’d restored from my childhood home. He painted one of the rooms a soft sage green—my favorite color. He stocked the kitchen with soups, ginger teas, protein shakes, and anything he thought might make treatment easier.
And that night, as we sat on the porch watching the sky fade to gold, he said quietly:
“I’m proud to take care of you. You’ve taken care of me my whole life.”
For the first time since my diagnosis, I felt peace—real peace—settling into my bones.
My illness was hard. My body was weak.
But my son?
My son was stronger than I ever imagined.
