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On our thirtieth wedding anniversary, I was diagnosed with late-stage stomach cancer. But my husband, Edward Miller, the commander, handed me a divorce agreement. "Susan, let's get divorced. I'll walk away with nothing. All our savings will be yours for your treatment," he said. "Why?" I demanded, my voice hoarse. Edward replied calmly, "You can't pass away as my wife. If you do, Lottie will only be the wife of a widower. Lottie is too proud to be made to suffer like this." I coughed up a mouthful of dark blood and shut my eyes, refusing to accept my fate. When I opened my eyes again, I was back on my wedding night. Edward, twenty-three years old, looked at me and said, "Susan, I'll marry you, but I won't touch you. I swore to Lottie I'd keep myself pure for her, always." I nodded. "Then let's get divorced."