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When I was sixty-five, my husband's first love was diagnosed with a terminal illness, with only two months left to live. To care for her, my husband arranged for her to live in our home. The family treated her like a cherished treasure. As for me, I had served my husband, supported our children, and raised our granddaughter. In the end, I was still expected to care for his first love. It wasn't until she knocked over a bottle of medicine that I finally left home.