The doctor’s name was Ignacio. He was in his fifties, with a calm voice and thin glasses—the kind of person you hope will tell you difficult things with gentle words. “I’ve seen the results,” he said, looking at a stack of papers. “Elena, there’s a tumor in your left lung.”
I stopped breathing. So did my wife, Elena. The clock on the wall seemed to stop ticking.
“Can it be cured?” I asked, the word feeling enormous in the small, sterile office.
“I can’t promise a cure,” Ignacio said. “But there are treatments. We can start chemo now. There’s also a targeted therapy that has shown good results, but it’s not covered by the public health system yet. If we do it privately, we can start sooner.”
Faster and better results. Those were the words a husband wants to hear. That’s when the other tumor started to grow—the one made of money. Ignacio explained the figures. The targeted therapy would cost between €80,000 and €120,000, plus maintenance sessions, check-ups, and other costs. The numbers danced in my head.
Elena was silent. She looked at me with those eyes she had when our son, Nico, would fall and start bleeding—eyes that said, What do we do?
I thought about my salary as a maintenance technician, the mortgage, the daycare fees. I thought about our savings account, which held a meager €5,800.
“We’ll do whatever it takes,” I heard the words come out of my mouth before my brain had even decided. Whatever it takes. I didn’t know then that “everything” would be literal.
My name is Marcos. I’m 38 years old. People call me for everything—a boiler that won’t start, a door that won’t close. I’m the guy who always has a screwdriver in his pocket. It’s not glamorous, but it pays the bills. Or it used to.
I was married to Elena. We had two children, Nico, who was seven at the time, and Martina, four. We lived a modest life, but I thought it was a happy one. Then came the diagnosis.
The private clinic demanded a down payment of €50,000. I went to the bank. They could extend our mortgage, but it would take time. Time, the oncologist had said, was something we didn’t have. So, I started dismantling our life, piece by piece.
I sold my car, a nine-year-old SEAT León, for €6,500. I emptied our savings. I borrowed €3,000 from my friend, Pedro. My father gave me his savings of €10,000. My mother offered to sell her jewelry. Elena looked at me with shame. “I don’t want to ruin you,” she whispered.
“This isn’t about money,” I lied again. “It’s about you.”
The mortgage extension was taking too long. The clinic demanded the down payment. I called a quick-sale real estate company. They would buy our apartment below market price, but in cash, and close in two weeks. Elena listened from the sofa, wrapped in a blanket. “Let’s not sell the house, Marcos. Please.”
“I’m not going to lose you over money,” I told her.
I don’t know if I did the right thing. We signed the papers. I didn’t sleep that week. I became a machine of fear, spreadsheets, and phone calls. I dismantled Martina’s crib. I put Nico’s drawings in a box. I paid the clinic. I paid the oncologist. I paid for the radiotherapy. I paid, and paid, and paid.
My hands smelled of bleach and fear. I learned the parking garage shifts and the nurses’ names. I sold my tools. I sold the big TV. The living room was left with a rectangle of light-colored dust on the wall. My wedding ring felt tight on my finger. One day, I took it off and sold it for €200. I felt dirty, but also like I was letting go of something that was sinking me.
“This is killing us,” Elena said one day, looking at our dwindling bank account.
“It’s not killing us. It’s saving us,” I replied. I needed to believe it.
And the therapy worked. It wasn’t a miracle. There were bad days, infections, fevers, nights in the ER. But the oncologist’s reports started to say words I learned to love: “significant reduction,” “no new lesions,” “partial response.”
At the six-month check-up, Ignacio smiled a real smile for the first time. “Elena, you are in a very good partial remission. This is a good day.”
Elena and I both cried in his office. We hugged each other, a real, desperate hug of survival. Outside, I sat on a bench with Elena in my arms. “Thank you, Marcos,” she said.
“Don’t thank me,” I replied.
I thought that after that, it would be our time to rebuild. We were living in a small, rented apartment. I had pawned everything. We had debts to friends and family. I had given up overtime, and my salary had been reduced. But she was alive. That was all that mattered.
A week after that check-up, Elena asked to talk. It was a Sunday. The kids were at my mother’s house. I made coffee. She sat at the table, upright, her hair starting to grow back in short tufts. She looked strong. That, I understand now, was part of the problem.
“Marcos,” she began, and her tone reminded me of when she told me she was pregnant with Nico. “I want to separate.”
I laughed, a strange, choked sound. “What?”
“I want a divorce,” she said, her voice flat. “I’ve thought about it a lot. I know it’s going to seem unfair to you, but I can’t go on. I’m not happy with you.”
I was speechless. I had taken care of her. I had sold our house. I had sold my wedding ring.
“You’re not the man I see myself with,” she said coldly. “I want something else. I want a real man.”
That phrase, a real man. It was as if someone had stabbed me in the chest with a fork. I jumped up, my chair shrieking against the floor. “I have given EVERYTHING for you to live, Elena! Everything!”
“And I appreciate that,” she said, as if discussing a business transaction, “but that’s not a lifetime contract.”
I wanted to scream. I bit my tongue. I felt like I was going to vomit. “Is there someone else?” I finally asked.
“It’s not about that,” she said, avoiding my gaze. “Don’t make this harder.”
I locked myself in the bathroom and punched the wall until my knuckles bled. The next day, an email arrived from her lawyer. A proposed settlement. Alimony. Division of assets—what assets? And custody. Sole maternal custody. Visitation for me on alternate Sundays and one afternoon a week.
In court, the judge was polite and quick. Elena spoke of routines, bonding, being the “primary caregiver.” I spoke of diapers, sleepless nights, taking Nico to the pediatrician. But love doesn’t translate well onto an A4-sized form. The ruling came two weeks later. She got everything.
That afternoon, Elena came to pick up the children. I had made macaroni. Nico hugged me tight. “Dad, are you coming to my soccer game tomorrow?”
“I can’t, champ. You’re with Mom tomorrow.”
“But Mom doesn’t know where my tracksuit is.”
I wanted to say yes. I wanted to say I didn’t care about the judge. But I just stood still. Elena looked at me with her chin held high. I packed a small bag, called a motel on the highway, and left. The man at the reception gave me a key and a look of pity. That night, I lay on the hard bed with my coat on and listened to the highway through the cheap window. My chest ached. I had lost my wife, my children, my home, and my money. I had nothing left.
Then there was a knock on the door.
I opened it, not caring who it was. I had nothing left to lose. A man stood there. “Marcos?” he asked. “I’m Luis. Elena’s brother.”
I let him in. He looked around the dismal room. “Oh, God,” he said, running a hand over his face. “I came for two reasons. One, to apologize. Two, to give you something.”
“Apologize?”
“I knew things,” he said, his voice heavy. “Not everything. But I knew Elena treated you badly, and we—her family—we covered for her. I can’t go on like this.” He took a deep breath. “Elena had been wanting to separate for months before the diagnosis. She postponed it because, you know, she needed you. My parents… they put it in her head that she could figure things out later. I told her it was crazy, but she didn’t listen.”
I was stunned. It was hard to breathe. “Before the diagnosis?”
“About a year before,” he said. “She met some people at the gym. She got ideas. I won’t lie to you, she flirted with one guy. The ‘real man’ thing is a phrase her friends use.”
I felt like I was going to be sick.
“And why are you telling me this now?” I spat.
“Because during the legal proceedings, she showed me her phone,” he said, pulling out his own. “Look.”
He showed me a WhatsApp conversation between Elena and her friend. “If I get custody, he’ll have to pay.” “He can’t even stand up straight. He’s not a man.” “I’ll hold out until December and then I’m out.” Cold, cruel comments about me, about the children, even about my father.
“There’s more,” he continued. “Messages with my parents about saving receipts to squeeze you for more money. And chats with her lawyer where they talk about hiding part of what you put in for the treatment so it wouldn’t be counted in the asset division.”
I was speechless. Luis put a USB drive in my hand. “Here are copies and audio files. Her lawyer will eat you alive, but you have to talk to someone who will really defend you. I’ll pay if I have to. Not for you—for my conscience, and for my niece and nephew.”
I put the USB in my pocket. “Thank you,” I said at last.
“Don’t thank me,” he said. “Just stop trying to save everyone, Marcos. Now it’s your turn.”
Luis knew a family lawyer who worked with fathers. His name was Jorge. He wasn’t promising miracles, but when he saw the evidence on the USB, his expression hardened. “This stinks,” he said. “The law doesn’t tolerate hiding marital assets.”
We filed motions. We requested a modification of the custody agreement and a forensic analysis of the messages. The court was slow, but it moved. A social worker came to the motel. She helped me get a room in a residence for men in transition. It wasn’t a palace, but it was clean and close to my children’s school. I called my boss and started working more hours. I bought a bus pass.
When Elena found out about the motion, she called me, furious. “What are you doing? Are you trying to ruin me?”
“I want to see my children,” I replied. “And I want our affairs to be clear.” I then told her to communicate only through the court-ordered app and hung up. I was shaking, but it was a start.
The social worker’s report was good. It said that despite my situation, I maintained a strong bond with my children. Jorge submitted that with more documents. An administrator from the community where I worked helped me apply for a small social housing apartment. Two weeks later, they gave it to me. A small studio with a narrow kitchen. I cried in the shower. It was mine. I bought a secondhand mattress, a table, two chairs, and a bunk bed for when the kids stayed over.
The hearing for the modification of measures was set for June. Jorge coached me. “Speak very little. Be clear. Just ask for what is rightfully yours.”
Elena came with her lawyer. She looked beautiful. I had known her face without eyebrows, her yellow skin from the chemo. Now she had a glow and new clothes. Something boiled inside me, and then I extinguished it.
The judge, a different one this time, listened to Jorge, listened to the social worker, and then listened to Elena say that I was “unstable.” Jorge took out the printed messages from the USB. The judge read them for a long time. The room was silent.
“Ma’am,” the judge said to Elena, “what I’m reading here concerns me. You talk about planning a separation for financial gain during a time of illness. I remind you that this court does not judge morality, but it does judge conduct that affects minors and a fair division of assets.”
The ruling arrived two weeks later. I opened it with clumsy hands. Shared custody is agreed upon on alternating weeks… Child support adjusted to income… The mother is warned of her obligation to facilitate the father-child relationship under penalty of further measures.
I sat down. I cried. I sent a photo of the ruling to Jorge. He wrote back: Good. This is normal justice, not revenge. Now, follow it to the letter.
Elena and I communicate through the app, dry and formal. The kids adapted better than I feared. Nico missed his big game console, but at my house, he learned to play cards. Martina helps me make cookies. We have Friday movie nights with popcorn. It’s a small life, but it’s real.
I work more. I’m not rich, but I stopped sinking. My friend Pedro still won’t let me pay back the €3,000. My father told me he’s in no hurry. Each month, I set aside €100 in an emergency envelope. My life had been nothing but emergencies. Now, I wanted to be prepared for a real one.
One day, Luis wrote to me. “How are you?”
“I’m living,” I replied.
“Good. I want my niece and nephew to grow up with two homes of love, not war.”
“Me too,” I wrote back. I made a promise to myself to never speak ill of their mother in front of them.
Elena asked me, outside the agreement, for help with some courses she wanted to take—emotional education, life coaching. I told her no. I told her that my responsibility was now to the children and to myself. She was offended, then she calmed down.
I started running in the mornings. I bought a secondhand coffee maker. The sound it makes reminds me of the years in our old apartment. It doesn’t hurt anymore. It’s a memory, not a wound.
Last week, I was picking up the kids from school. Elena was there. We hadn’t seen each other in person in months. There was a man with her. He was handsome, well-dressed, laughing. He had his arm around her. A real man, I thought to myself. For a second, a familiar pang of bitterness hit me. Then, Nico came running toward me, his face alight with a huge smile. “Dad!” he shouted, and threw his arms around my legs. Martina was right behind him, her little hand reaching for mine.
I looked at Elena and her new life, then I looked down at the two small, perfect faces looking up at me. And I realized I had already won. I hadn’t just gotten my kids back. I had gotten myself back. He had her “real man.” I had my real life. And I wouldn’t trade it for anything.