She Chose the Baby. He Chose His Mistress.

Seven months along with my pregnancy—that’s when the doctors told me I had uterine cancer. They said I had to make a choice: my life or my baby’s.

I immediately called my husband, Richard, my hands shaking. “Please, I’m sick. It’s bad. We need to talk—”

There was silence on the other end, then his voice—cold, detached. “Save the baby. That’s the obvious choice.”

I didn’t even cry. I just stood there, staring at nothing, feeling hollow.

Later, I saw him at the same hospital—his arm around his mistress, Camille, as they walked out of the OB-GYN clinic.