Their luxury yacht — this gleaming white shrine to Evelyn’s vanity — had been featured on national news because it had been forced to dock due to an outbreak of norovirus on board.

Camera footage showed paramedics in masks rushing people off, passengers vomiting into bags, crew members shouting. And in that chaos, clear as day, there was Garrett — pale, sweating, doubled over — while Evelyn screamed at a poor nurse about “standards” and “refunds.”

I stared at the screen, stunned. My phone buzzed again.

“Girl… karma just hit like a freight train,” my coworker texted.

I didn’t smile. I didn’t laugh. I didn’t feel vindicated. I just stared, numb, as the headline scrolled across the bottom of the TV:

HOLIDAY CRUISE OUTBREAK LEAVES DOZENS SICK — VIP PASSENGERS STRANDED

VIP passengers. That was Evelyn all over.

Two days later, Garrett slunk back home looking broken — greasy hair, sunburned face, shivering in a hoodie like a scolded child. He walked in without knocking, because in his mind, this was still “his” home.

He found me in the kitchen sipping ginger tea.

“Hey…” he croaked.

I didn’t answer.

He shifted, awkward. “You… probably saw the news.”

I stared into my cup. “Did you have a good birthday?”

His face crumpled. “Nora, it wasn’t like that. It was hell. We got quarantined. Mom screamed at everyone. I got so sick I thought I’d die. I kept thinking I should’ve stayed. With you.”

I finally met his eyes. “But you didn’t.”

Silence. His breath hitched. “I was scared.”

I blinked slowly. “Of what? Caring for your wife? Missing out on champagne and ocean views? Or disappointing the woman who raised you to be spineless?”

He flinched hard — like I’d physically slapped him.

That week, I made a decision. Not out of rage, but out of clarity that chemo had burned into me like acid: I deserved better than a man who fled at the first inconvenience.

While Garrett slept in the guest room “recovering,” I made calls — doctors, lawyers, therapists, friends. Not once did he ask how my treatments went. Not once did he sit beside me during the nausea waves that left me shaking on the bathroom floor. He just kept whining about how “traumatizing” the trip was.

Traumatizing.

Meanwhile, I was fighting for my life.

One afternoon, Evelyn called. I put her on speaker.

Her voice was shrill: “Nora! You need to tell Garrett to stop being dramatic about the cruise! I didn’t raise a weakling!”

I let out a humorless laugh. “You didn’t raise a husband, either.”

She sputtered. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me. And since you’re so concerned about appearances, you’ll love this: I filed for divorce today.”

There was a sharp inhale, then shrieking.

“DIVORCE?! In the middle of your treatment? How dare you play the victim card! Do you know how that will look for Garrett’s career?!”

I smiled coldly. “Do you know how it looked when he abandoned his chemo patient wife on Thanksgiving? Because everyone else does.”

Dead silence.

“W-what?”

“Oh, you didn’t know? Turns out my friends talk. And they talk loudly. Even your precious Rotary Club knows. It’s amazing how fast gossip spreads when it involves a man ditching his sick wife to sip Chardonnay on a yacht.”

Evelyn hung up without another word.

After that, Garrett tried everything — tears, apologies, promises that chemo “changed him.” But every apology had a tremor of self-preservation, not love. He wanted redemption, not me.

The final blow came in mediation three months later. My attorney slid an envelope forward.

Inside were photos — paparazzi shots, actually — of Evelyn yelling at port officials, shoving a camera, and being physically escorted away while screaming, “DO YOU KNOW WHO I AM?!”

Those pictures had ended up all over the internet. Her country club expelled her. Her charity board “temporarily suspended” her. Sponsors dropped her.

Garrett’s company didn’t renew his contract, citing “reputational concerns.”

Karma didn’t just tap them — it devoured them whole.

The divorce was finalized on a rainy Tuesday in May. After the hearing, Garrett followed me outside.

“You really won’t try again?” he whispered.

I looked at him — this hollow man collapsing under the weight of his own choices.

“No,” I said. “Because when I was dying, you left. And when you were vomiting on a boat, I didn’t.”

He frowned. “What does that mean?”

“It means one of us was a spouse. And it sure as hell wasn’t you.”

I walked away without looking back.

That was a year ago.

I finished chemo. I’m in remission. I moved to a small apartment with warm light and plants on every windowsill. Friends check on me. I laugh again.

Last week, I heard through mutual acquaintances that Evelyn refuses to board anything bigger than a rowboat now, and Garrett moved back in with her.

Maybe that’s karma. Maybe it’s justice. Maybe it’s just life balancing its scales.