My name is Grace. I’m 43.
For fifteen years, I believed my marriage was the one thing in my life that could never break.
Daniel and I built everything together. Two kids. A house that always smelled like detergent, spaghetti sauce, and crayons melted into the couch cushions. School mornings, grocery runs, weekend movies on the couch.
It wasn’t glamorous.
But it was ours.
And I trusted it.
Then Daniel got sick.
At first it was small things. He came home exhausted every day. He started falling asleep on the couch before dinner. Sometimes he’d wake up with headaches so bad he could barely stand.
We blamed stress. Work. Age.
Then the doctor called.
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