For six years, my life revolved around hospital rooms, prescription bottles, and endless worry.
When my husband, Daniel, was diagnosed with a serious illness, I never hesitated. I loved him. That was enough.
At first, everyone promised they would help.
His parents said they would be there every step of the way.
His brother swore we were family.
His friends talked about loyalty and support.
But as the months turned into years, one by one, they disappeared.
The hospital visits became less frequent.
The phone calls stopped.
Birthday cards and holiday greetings never arrived.
Eventually, it was just me.
Me driving him to appointments.
Me sitting beside his bed during sleepless nights.
