Ten Years of Lies,That Broke Me A Dying Wife's Revenge

Ten years of marriage to Lionel Dickerson.

Our only communication was bank transfers.

Fifty thousand dollars meant he wouldn't be home tonight.

Two hundred thousand meant a three-day business trip.

I kept telling myself it was normal. He was a top surgeon,

held people's lives in his hands. Of course he'd be cold.

The day I was diagnosed with late-stage stomach cancer, I swallowed the pain and asked if he could have dinner with me.

This time, it wasn't a transfer.

It was a photo.

"Hey sis, Dr. Dickerson's hands are just as steady with bra clasps as they are with a scalpel."