My Cancer Treatment, Her Ex

From the moment I received the critical illness notification until I passed away, my wife Jane Hesler never showed up.

I drifted away from the hospital after my death. Only then did I learn what she was up to.

In a rundown photo studio without even a sign, she was wrapped in an intimate embrace with her first love, Anthony Shane.

The green-haired photographer with a cigarette dangling from his lips gestured at her. "Miss, move closer. Hey... Yes, yes. Hook your legs around the handsome man's waist. Your expression should be more alluring. Miss, you're not a little girl anymore. Do I have to teach you how to be sexy?"

Jane looked nothing like her usual androgynous self: she wore heavy makeup and wore a black halter dress with a deep V-neck. She was pretty much clinging to Anthony, changing her poses constantly as the photographer instructed her. She also smiled seductively at the camera.

I had to admit — Jane looked undeniably alluring and feminine.

However, she also seemed like a stranger because she had never shown such a feminine side in front of me before.

The rundown photo studio was damp and cold; rats were running in and out of the corners, and cockroaches were rampant on the yellowish walls.

Jane's fair skin was frozen red and even had goosebumps all over.

She was an extreme germaphobe. Normally, at home, she would wipe the glass of water I poured her with a wet wipe.

Now, she was willing to expose herself in this filthy environment for her first love, Anthony.

Anthony put his arm around her waist, smiling as he leaned close to her ear. His lips lightly touched her earlobe. "Babe, you're so beautiful that I can hardly contain myself. Gale Senna is blind. He has such a beautiful wife, yet he doesn't appreciate your beauty."

Jane chuckled, flicking her hair and revealing the blush behind her ear. "Don't mention him; it ruins the mood! He's like a wild boar that can't handle fine food. Being with him is like living in hell."

I was Gale, her husband of ten years. I treated her like a goddess, but she considered me a wild boar.

Jane's phone rang again; it was my mother calling her using my phone.

Since I arrived, my mother had called her more than a dozen times.

"Your phone keeps ringing; are you sure you don't want to answer it?" The constant buzzing was annoying Anthony; he pushed Jane away and asked with displeasure.

A flicker of panic crossed Jane's face, but her expression quickly darkened. "Gale's always like this, making phone calls even when there's nothing wrong, and then throwing a tantrum over a minor sickness! Don't worry about him, it's his usual routine; he's just testing whether I care about him."

I could not help but smile bitterly. I did not care whether she cared about me.

On the contrary, since the day I was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer, my biggest problem had been how to keep her from being too upset. I even told everyone around me not to tell her a thing because I knew her health was poor, and I did not want her to be upset in the slightest.

Pancreatic cancer was known as the king of cancers, with a five-year survival rate of less than 10%, and mine was already in its late stages.

Aggressive treatment might prolong my life for a while, but I refused.