There I was, standing in Brody’s office, spoons slipping from my hands and crashing to the floor. Because my husband was openly flirting with his secretary like I didn’t even exist. “Brody, what is this?” I asked, loud enough to cut through their fake giggles. He shrugged. “Relax. Just talking work.” I said, “Oh? Is sliding your hand up her skirt part of the job now?” Everyone froze. Brody didn’t blink. “Don’t make a scene.” The words hit me like a physical blow. Don’t make a scene? My world was crumbling, and he was worried about decorum. The secretary, a woman barely out of college, looked down, a faint blush on her cheeks, but no real shame. Just… awkwardness. My heart hammered against my ribs, a trapped bird desperate to escape. The lunch I’d lovingly packed, a small gesture of connection, lay scattered and ignored. Shattered.
“A scene?” My voice was barely a whisper now, thick with unshed tears. “You want to talk about a scene? You think this isn’t a scene, Brody? You think I wouldn’t notice?” I gestured wildly at the two of them, the space between them, the casual intimacy I’d just witnessed. My breath hitched. How long has this been going on? The question burned, unasked, too terrifying to utter aloud.
He finally looked at me, his eyes cold, distant. “Look, this isn’t the time.”
“Oh, really? When is the time, Brody? When I’m not here? When I’m home alone, wondering why you’re working late again?” My voice rose, cracking with each word. I felt naked, exposed, every insecurity laid bare for this stranger to see. Humiliated. This can’t be real.
The secretary shifted, finally speaking. Her voice was soft, apologetic. “Please, ma’am. It’s not what you think.”
“Oh, really?” I snapped, turning my fury on her. “Because it looks exactly like what I think. It looks like you’re sleeping with my husband!”
Brody finally moved, stepping between us, a protective barrier. Against me. Against his wife.
He leaned in, his voice a low growl. “You need to calm down. There are things you don’t understand.”
“I understand enough!” I yelled, my chest aching. “I understand that my husband, the man I married, the man I made a life with, is a CHEATER!”
He recoiled slightly, a flicker of something in his eyes. Not anger. Not remorse. Desperation?
He turned to the secretary, a silent plea passing between them. She nodded, her face pale. She picked up a folder from her desk, the kind with medical-looking diagrams, not financial reports. She handed it to me, her hand trembling.
“Brody… he was just… he didn’t know how to tell you.” Her voice was soft, laced with genuine sorrow. What was she talking about?
I snatched the folder, my fingers fumbling with the clasp. My eyes scanned the words, the charts, the professional letterhead. It wasn’t Brody’s company logo. It was a hospital. A specialist. My name, in bold, at the top. The diagnosis jumped out at me, stark and clinical. Terminal. Stage IV. Six months, maybe less.
My gaze snapped back to Brody. His face was a mask of grief, tears streaming silently down his cheeks. The secretary, a hospice nurse, wasn’t flirting. She was comforting him, answering his desperate questions, holding his hand as he grappled with the news he couldn’t bring himself to share. The “skirt” was her uniform. His “flirting” was his broken, agonizing way of pushing me away, trying to spare me the pain of watching him crumble, of making me hate him before I died. He was already living my grief. And I had just accused him of the worst betrayal, when he was already carrying the heaviest burden of all. Oh my god.
