Leaving the doctor’s office, I sent a photo of the test report to my husband Preston Hyland.
His reply came quickly. "Babe, I have to go on a business trip today and will be home late. You should rest early, okay?"
He didn’t look at the report I sent.
Remembering the doctor’s words, I wanted to cry my heart out, but I found I couldn't even cry.
"The situation is not good. It’s best to be hospitalized for treatment... at most six months."
The doctor’s words, like a verdict, froze my life at 25.
Preston didn’t come home tonight.
Six months ago, I discovered he had a mistress living across from the Hyland Family Group building.
He thought I didn’t know about his affair, but his mistress wasn't discreet, flaunting her happy life on Instagram every day, as if afraid I wouldn’t see it.
Initially, a strange number added me on WhatsApp, marked as Preston’s assistant Iris Loren. I rarely went out and had little contact with Preston's circle; I didn’t even have the number of Preston’s long-time secretary. It was suspicious that an assistant could get my WhatsApp contact.
As expected, Iris’s WhatsApp Status was filled with posts about Preston: traveling together, skiing, dining... Every picture lacked direct contact, but each one hinted at intimacy.
After returning home, I ordered a table full of my favorite dishes and indulged myself.
Was I sad?
I had been, but my body wouldn’t allow me to stay sad over something meaningless for too long.
"Mrs. Hyland, would you like me to make you some nourishing soup?" Nancy, who had cared for me for years, looked worried as she watched me devour my meal.
“No, thank you. I just want to enjoy this meal. Just this one.”
I gave Nancy six months off with full pay.
I’m a strange person. I crave care from others, yet when I receive it, I feel at a loss.
At the end of my life, I just want to leave alone.