After He Cheated, I Shredded His Terminal Diagnosis

The day I found out about Kelvin's diagnosis was the same day he installed a camera in our bedroom. That evening, I accidentally overheard him on the phone, making a solemn pledge:

"I won't touch her again. I've sent you the account passwords, and you can log in anytime to check."

"I've made up my mind to stay loyal for love."

Watching his earnest, flushed face, I quietly fed the diagnosis letter into the shredder.

Stay loyal for love...

Well, then, let it be for a lifetime.

Seeing "ALS" on Kelvin's diagnosis nearly knocked me off balance. Three months ago, when Kelvin slipped during a hiking trip in the Alps and ended up in the hospital, I asked the doctors for a full check-up, just to be sure. I never imagined this result.

"Right now, there's no cure for ALS. We can only prescribe medication to slow it down, but the eventual outcome can't be changed."

The doctor looked at me with a sympathetic gaze.

Kelvin, in his early thirties, is handsome, vibrant, and successful. As a well-regarded divorce lawyer, he is sharp, decisive, and rational—a top-tier professional. His personal life is simple and well-organized; he loves fitness and hiking, prioritizing a high standard of living.

The thought of someone like him becoming dependent and facing the challenges of an ALS patient was too overwhelming.

Sitting by the roadside, watching the constant flow of people, I finally stood up after a long pause.

I had made up my mind. As partners, we should face everything together. No matter what he becomes, I will stand by him with our son.

When I got home, night had set in.

Emery was quietly playing chess in his room. At seven, he was already quite skilled, having been interviewed by television as a "prodigy."

"Have you eaten?" I asked softly, masking my emotions.

"Yes, Aunt Maliyah made some pulled pork." He didn’t look up, his focus on the board.

"And Dad?"

"He went for a run."

Emery, like us, was composed and straightforward in his speech.

Two hours later, as I leaned against the bed, I debated whether to tell Kelvin about the diagnosis when he returned. Dressed in black workout clothes, he seemed fit and energetic.

I couldn't help but worry. "It's freezing outside. Why are you wearing so little?"

Today's doctor's advice included a caution that ALS patients should avoid cold to slow muscle deterioration.

Kelvin, unemotional, replied coolly, "That's how I run."

He opened a box he brought in and began setting up a camera on the dresser facing the bed.

I was confused.

"Why install a camera all of a sudden?"

"There have been break-ins nearby. It's safer with surveillance."

"Aren't you worried about privacy?" I asked cautiously, aware of how much Kelvin valued his privacy.

He glanced at me and scoffed, "Privacy? Who's interested in watching your privacy?"

A surge of emotions ran through me, and I refrained from debating further.

Before sleep, he lay down with his back to me, keeping his distance and exuding an air of exhaustion and disinterest in conversation.

I sighed gently.

He had just concluded a high-profile celebrity divorce case and probably needed to unwind, so I let it slide.

In the middle of the night, anxious thoughts pulled me from sleep. The bed was empty; Kelvin was gone.

Panic surged through me as I got up to find him.

On the balcony, he was on the phone, wearing only thin sleepwear in the chilly night air.

Hurriedly, I grabbed a coat and approached.

"I won't touch her again..."

His whispered words halted my steps.

"I've sent you the password and account details. You can check anytime."

"I've decided to stay loyal for love."

Through the glass, I stared at Kelvin.

Intense emotions were breaking through his usual indifferent face.

Watching his fervent, flushed face, my mind slowly processed the logic behind his words.

For a moment, I felt like I no longer recognized him.