Two months after the divorce, I was shocked to see my wife wandering around in the hospital. And knowing the truth made me break…
I didn’t think I would see her there – among dozens of people in yellow hospital gowns, with tired faces and blurred eyes, she sat quietly in the corner of the hallway as if the whole world had abandoned her. And at that moment, my heart felt like someone was pressing it. She – my ex-wife, whom I divorced two months ago.

My name is Arjun, 34 years old, an ordinary office worker, whose marriage lasted for 5 years, seems stable to look at. My wife – Maya – is a gentle, kind woman, not very attractive, but makes me feel at ease whenever I come home.

We dreamed like any other couple: buying a house, having children, a small family. But after three years of marriage, after Maya had two miscarriages, the atmosphere of the house began to change. Maya began to speak less, her eyes often looking far away. I started to feel tired because of the days when I would come home from work and only see sighs and cold faces.

I didn’t deny that it was my fault. I started coming home late, avoiding talking to my wife, using work as an excuse to avoid facing the emptiness between us. Gradually, petty arguments became more frequent, although neither of us wanted to hurt each other. One day in April, after a short but tedious debate, I said softly:

Let’s get a divorce, Maya.

He looked at me for a long time, then said only one sentence:

You’ve decided, haven’t you?

I nodded. She didn’t cry or scream as I had imagined. She just nodded silently and packed up her clothes that night. The divorce papers were signed quickly, as if we had both mentally prepared for a long time.

After the divorce, I moved into a rented apartment in New Delhi, living a simple life: going to work in the morning, going out for drinks at night, or coming home to watch a movie. There was no one to cook, no sound of slippers knocking every morning, and no familiar voice asking: “Have you eaten?” I was sure I was right – at least at the time.

Two months passed. I was living like a shadow. There were many nights when I would wake up in the middle of a nightmare, and find myself calling Maya’s name in my dreams.

That day, I went to meet my best friend Rohit at AIIMS (All India Institute of Medical Sciences) hospital in New Delhi, who had just undergone surgery. As I walked through the corridor of the Department of Internal Medicine, I involuntarily turned my head because I thought someone was familiar. And then I saw Maya.

She sat there wearing a light blue hospital gown, her hair oddly cut short – she loved her long hair very much. His face was pale, thin, and his eyes were desolate and lifeless. There was an IV drip next to it.

I just stood there. My heart was pounding. Many questions were running through my mind: What had happened to him? Why didn’t anyone tell me? Why was he sitting there alone?

I walked up to him trembling and said…

— Maya?

He looked up. His desolate eyes sparkled with surprise.

— You… Arjun?

— What are you doing here? What’s wrong with you?

She turned away, avoiding my gaze. His voice was as low as the wind:

— Nothing… It’s just a health check.

I sat down beside him holding his hand. It was cold.

You don’t have to hide from me. Seeing me like this… How can I be sure?

A moment later, she spoke softly:

— Me… I just found out that I have early-stage ovarian cancer. The doctor has said that it can be cured if I follow the rules. But I don’t have insurance, I don’t have anyone with me, and… I won’t have much money left after I leave home.

I was stunned. His words pierced me like a knife straight into my heart. For the past two months, I have been living in a false sense of peace, while she – who once was my wife, who lay in my arms every night – is alone in an indescribable pain.

Why didn’t you tell me? — I choked up.

— We’re divorced. I don’t want to be a burden on you anymore. Me… I thought I could handle it myself.

I didn’t know what to say. Guilt engulfed me like a tide.

That day, I sat with him till evening. For the first time in months, we talked like family — no blame, no pride.

Before leaving, I said:
— Maya, let me be with you. Although we are no longer husband and wife, I cannot leave you like this.

She just smiled sadly:
“Do you pity me?”
— Nope. I… I really love you.

The next morning, I returned to AIIMS with a box of hot khichdi and some oranges. Maya was surprised to see me, but did not say anything. Maybe he thought I was coming, but he wasn’t sure.

Over the next few days, I almost quit my job to be with him. I took him for a check-up, waited for every medication, and even copied every diet instruction given by the doctor. I don’t know what I needed to do – to repent, to repent, or just because… I still loved him.

One afternoon, as I was preparing her hospital bed, Maya suddenly exclaimed:
“Do you know… Did I know I was sick before the divorce?

I was stunned.

— What?

A week before you asked for a divorce, I went to the doctor because of constant stomach pain. The biopsy results came on the same day we had the fight.

I looked back at him, I felt as if someone had punched me in the heart.

Why didn’t you say anything?
— I know… If I tell you, you’ll stop because of responsibility, not because you still love me. I don’t want that. I want you to be free… At least like a human being who is not bound by pain.

I jumped, couldn’t hold back my tears.

Do you think I’m that kind of person? Do you think I’m not in pain?

Maya looked at me for a long time. She smiled, the calmest smile I’ve ever seen.

It’s not that I don’t believe you. But I don’t want you to spend your whole life with a sick person, and pretend to be happy every day. I can’t stand this.

I couldn’t answer. Because she was right to some extent. At that point, I really wanted to leave him. I considered her a burden—without knowing that I was the one who had left her in this cruel world.

About a week later, Maya was transferred to the general treatment department, where she began chemotherapy. I ordered a folding bed from a relative’s room and went to the hospital to take care of it. For the first time in many years, I learned to truly listen: when she was in pain, when she vomited because of medication, when she laughed at the slightest thing.

One night, while she was fast asleep, I sorted her bag and found a small envelope that read: “If Arjun ever read this, I am sorry. ”

I was confused. After a few seconds of hesitation, I opened the letter.

Arjuna,
if you read this, I may not have the strength to speak. I know you’re annoyed at me being cold and silent. But I don’t want to tire you out. You don’t deserve to be dragged into this helplessness.
I got pregnant again. For a very short time. I didn’t dare to say anything because I was afraid that I would lose my temper like before. And then it came true… I lost my baby six weeks later. The doctor said that it was a weak body and… It was because of a tumor that developed after that.
I divorced to cherish beautiful memories for you, not the image of a skinny wife, full of ivy and filled with the smell of antiseptic. But I still love you very much. That’s it… I keep that love with me.
If I could go back, I would still choose to let go. Because I know… You need to live a different life.
But thank you, for loving me.

I embraced the letter, trembling as if someone had just dropped the whole world with their hands. The things he hid from me—another miscarriage, then being diagnosed with illness, then his decision to leave home—were all to keep me from hurting. But it hurt me a hundred times more.

A week later, Dr. Kapoor invited me to his private room.

Maya’s condition is deteriorating. The tumor is not responding well to chemotherapy. We will try another effective remedy, but the chances of recovery are not high.

I felt as if all my strength was gone. For the first time in my life, I was so scared of losing someone.

That night, I held her hand in the hospital room. She was weak, and she didn’t have much strength to speak. I sat down beside him and whispered in his ear:

If possible, I… I want to get married again. I don’t care about the papers. I just want to see you every morning, hold your hand like this every night. We don’t have to start all over again, just stick together as long as you want.

Maya smiled faintly, touching my cheek. Tears were flowing from her eyes, but there was still a smile on her face.
— I… I agree.

In the following days, with complete simplicity, we celebrated a small wedding ceremony in the hospital room itself: a nurse temporarily tied a red thread bracelet, and some marigold flowers that someone had brought as gifts. No music, no guests, just IV machine beeps and whispering promises.

Three months later, Maya passed away in my arms. In that short period of time, we were back as husband and wife. I still keep the photograph of that old marriage and the letter he left as two sacred testimonies of the woman who silently loved me so much—her pain, to the point of sacrificing her life.

I don’t cry every night like I used to in the past. But every time I walk through the corridors of the old AIIMS, I remember the astonished look—the look that changed the rest of my life. And in the midst of the hustle and bustle of New Delhi, I still hear a very low whisper somewhere: “Thank you for loving me.” ”