When my husband Eric first told me he needed space to think, I didn’t know this would become the most terrifying ten days of my life. We’d been married for 12 years — long enough to know each other by heart — so when he said he was going to sleep in his car for a while, I didn’t know what to think.
“It’s not about us, Nella,” he said gently. “I just need time to clear my head.” Yet the moment he packed a bag and walked out, my mind spiraled with the worst possibilities. Was Eric cheating? Was he planning to leave? Could there be someone else?
For ten nights straight, he left right after dinner and returned just before sunrise. Each morning he looked like he hadn’t slept, hair wild and eyes shadowed, and every time I asked what was happening, he dismissed it with a forced smile — claiming he just needed a break. Yet the secretive behavior only fueled my fear.
By the fifth night, I couldn’t take it anymore. I decided I would follow him. I waited until he left, tailed his car, and watched from the shadows as he drove only to the local park. Under a quiet tree, he parked with the headlights off, pulled out a blanket and pillow, and simply curled up there. I waited. But no one came. No lover emerged. Just him — alone in the dark.
Still, the mystery gnawed at me. What was he hiding? So on the tenth night I followed him again — this time with resolve. After putting our kids to bed, I drove out to that same park, parked beside his car, and tapped on his window. Startled, Eric unlocked the door and motioned for me to sit with him.
“Eric,” I demanded, emotions spilling out, “what’s going on? Are you seeing someone? Is that why you’re out here every night?” He sighed, exhaustion written on his face in a way I’d never seen before.
Then he reached back into the seat and pulled out a stack of children’s books and a small recording device. “I didn’t want you to worry,” he said softly. “But I’ve been out here recording bedtime stories for the kids.” I blinked, confused. Why would that worry me? Then he told me the truth — a truth so painful I could barely breathe.
“I went to the doctor,” he whispered. “They found a tumor. The biopsy is back. It’s cancer, Nella. And it’s bad. I don’t have much time left.” He had been battling fear and heartbreak alone — recording voice-book readings so our children could hear his voice even when he was gone.
I grabbed his hand, overwhelmed with shock and love. “We’re going to face this together,” I told him — and we did. The months that followed were filled with treatments, hospital visits, and clinging to hope. Eric played with the kids whenever he could; he made pancakes for dinner and let them choose Halloween costumes months in advance. He fought hard, but the disease was relentless.
One cold winter morning, Eric passed away quietly at home. The house felt emptier than ever. Our children — still too young to fully grasp what happened — sat at his funeral with eyes wide and hearts heavy.
Days later, when the house was full of condolences and soft voices that seemed so distant, I finally felt ready to listen to the recordings Eric had left in that car. One title stood out: “Our Story.” As I pressed play, his warm voice filled the space, telling a tale of love, courage, and the extraordinary life we built together.
He called me his princess — brave, kind, and with the biggest heart he’d ever known. He spoke of ordinary life made extraordinary with love, and reminded me that even though he might be gone, my own story had to go on.
Now, whenever the days feel too hard, I press play and listen to Eric’s voice. Somehow, I can smile again.
