When I moved in with my boyfriend in August 2014, the dynamics had shifted and the honeymoon phase quickly came to a halt. It could have had to do with several things all at once: my dad in hospice and dying, my return from studying in Europe, moving in with my boyfriend, his kids and the un-housetrained dog, and being between teaching jobs. Cancer hit in October and from then on it was a downward slope. May 19, 2015, my boyfriend told me he is done with me and - desperately - want me to move out of his house before next weekend. Less than one month out of the hospital, my breast tissue not yet expand to its full capacity, a band-aid covering the hole where the drains once were, the beast reared its ugly head again and declared my relationship over: more big changes to face! I told him I didn't want to end the relationship and expressed my disillusionment that he was basing his decision on the last six months while I was going through treatment and was not my self. When I got diagnosed he told me he would be with me 1000% through it all - what happened to that? After surgery, I am feeling considerably less stressed and I suggested we ride this out and, with our couples therapist, find our way back to the romantic, magical love we once had for each other. But there has been no room for negotiation with this lawyer, he is done. I moved in with this fifty-two year old intelligent, adventurous, kind, loving, attentive, fun, spiritual, athletic man because we discussed spending our lives together. In the end, he proved not be the One to stick around in sickness and in health, nor in good times and bad. I'm devastated.