He Ignored My Cancer, I Called Off Our Wedding

Chapter 2

I stumbled back into the apartment I’d shared with him for five years. Every last thing here, every piece of furniture, every little plant, every single thing you laid eyes on, was picked out and set up by me, personally.

The pair of slippers by the front door? I’d bought them matching, couple style, on purpose.

The throw pillow on the sofa? I stitched every last thread of that by hand.

Even those plants I keep on the balcony? I’d nurtured it, watering it carefully every single day.

But right now, staring at this home brimming with all my little everyday memories, I could barely breathe, like a hand was squeezing tight around my throat.

My stomach churned so violently I thought I’d be sick.

I sprinted for the bathroom and doubled over the toilet, heaving and retching over and over. Nothing came up but bitter stomach acid and streaks of blood.

I lifted my head to look at the woman staring back at me in the mirror. Her skin was sallow and dull, her eye sockets sunken in, her hair brittle and dead.

Seven years ago, I was the big name on campus at Stanford University. I walked away with a full ride scholarship, and I had offers from half a dozen top-tier companies waiting for me when I graduated.

Back then, Wilson was just a broke, introverted medical student who barely ever spoke to anyone. I was the one who made the first move, who chased him.

For him, I turned down the chance to build my career in Europe, and stayed right here in this second-tier city instead.

To take care of him, I learned how to cook all kinds of healthy, nourishing soups. I went from a pampered young lady who’d never even held a kitchen knife, to a careful, budget-conscious housewife.

Wilson said he didn’t like women who were too assertive.

So, I filed down all my sharp edges and hid all my ambition. I became a soft, docile little woman who never spoke out of turn around him.

He said he hated the smell of cooking oil lingering in the house.

So, I always clamped the kitchen door shut tight when I cooked. I never dared open it, even when summer heat was so sweltering I almost passed out from heatstroke.

He said posting to i********: was just performative nonsense, and he didn’t like doing it.

So, for five whole years, my feed was full of him, shots of his back, his profile, his long, slender fingers.

His feed, though? Totally blank. Like he was still a single man.

That all changed yesterday.

That photo of Luisa eating quick-cook pasta that popped up on my feed? It slapped me awake, hard and finally. Turns out he never hated posting on i********: at all. He just hated posting me. Turns out, he never hated cooking fumes in the first place. He just hated the food I cooked for him.

A memory suddenly hit me, of a night six months ago.

It was Wilson’s birthday that day. I slaved away for an entire afternoon, putting together a whole table full of all his favorite dishes.

I’d even learned how to cook dishes just for this, and pan-fried a steak from scratch.

I waited, and waited, until midnight, before he finally came home.

He reeked of alcohol, and under that, I caught a faint, off whiff of perfume.

I carried out the pot of rice pudding I’d re-heated three whole times, smiled up at him and said, "Happy birthday. Have some rice pudding to settle your stomach, okay?"

He just scowled and shoved the bowl right out of my hands. "We eat this damn stuff every single day. You might not get sick of it, but I sure as hell am. It tastes like nothing. It's pig slop."

The boiling hot rice pudding splashed all across the back of my hand, and blisters bubbled up instantly across my burned skin.

He didn’t even glance at me. He just turned and walked straight into the bathroom like nothing happened.

It was only later that I found out what he’d really done that night. Luisa had taken him to a roadside stall for spicy hot pot skewers.

He’d complained to his buddy while they sat in his car, "This kind of cheap comfort food hits so different, man. Sometimes you just have to switch things up."

So that was it. The carefully simmered, gently seasoned creamed rice I’d made to soothe his upset stomach was nothing better than slop to him.

But that cheap street‑side grub Luisa bought for just a few dollars, was somehow the finest meal he had ever tasted.