When I noticed my husband Eric acting strange, I couldn’t shake the feeling something was off.

He’d been leaving the house every night after dinner, coming back late, and looking drained. I told myself he was just stressed, but my mind kept racing—what was going on? Was he seeing someone else? I decided to follow him one night.

I trailed him to the local park, where he parked his car under a tree. I stayed hidden, watching as he sat in the car, staring at his phone, then lay down with a pillow and blanket. No one else showed up. It was just him—alone in the dark.

For the next few nights, the same thing happened. I couldn’t understand why he’d choose to sleep in his car. Finally, I couldn’t take it anymore. I needed answers. After putting the kids to bed, I drove to the park and tapped on his window.

When he unlocked the door, I climbed in, my heart pounding. “What’s going on, Eric? Why are you doing this? Are you seeing someone else?” I asked, my voice shaking.

He sighed deeply, his exhaustion clear. “No, it’s not like that. There’s no one else.” He paused, then reached into the backseat and pulled out a stack of books and a recording device. “I’ve been recording bedtime stories for the kids,” he said quietly.

I stared at him, confused. “Bedtime stories? Why would that worry me?”

“I went to the doctor a few weeks ago,” he began, his voice trembling. “They found a tumor. It’s cancer, Nella. And it’s bad.” He looked at me, eyes filled with sadness. “I’m running out of time.”

The world seemed to drop away from me. I couldn’t breathe. “Why didn’t you tell me?” I whispered.

“I didn’t want to burden you,” he said softly. “But I wanted to leave them something. Something to remember me by.”

In that moment, I realized it wasn’t about another woman. It was about him, facing something I wasn’t ready to face. I took his hand, holding it tightly. “We’ll get through this together,” I said, my voice breaking.

The following months were a blur of doctor’s visits and treatments, but Eric kept fighting. He made memories with our kids—taking them to the park, making pancakes for dinner, and telling them stories. He fought hard, but in the end, the cancer was relentless.

Eric passed away on a quiet winter morning. Our house felt empty without him. The kids didn’t fully understand the loss, but I felt it deeply.

A few days later, when everything had settled, I finally listened to the recordings he’d made. One file was titled “Our Story.” I hesitated before pressing play. His voice, steady and warm, filled the car.

“Once upon a time,” he began, “there was a princess. She was kind, smart, and braver than any knight in the land. But most of all, she had the biggest heart anyone had ever known.”

Tears filled my eyes as I listened. “The princess met an ordinary man,” he continued, “and together, they lived many happy years.”

Eric’s voice faltered at the end. “So, my love, if you’re listening to this, know that you were my fairytale. You turned my ordinary life into something extraordinary. And even though I can’t be with you anymore, your fairytale must go on.”

I sat there, crying, but feeling strangely comforted. His love would always be with me, and somehow, I knew I would find a way to smile again.