I realized everything too late: it was only when my husband became seriously ill that I understood how deeply I loved him.
When I married James, I was just twenty-five. Armed with a fresh diploma and a world of opportunities laid out before me, I felt confident in myself, proud of my intellect and appearance, and always believed I could choose any man I wanted. They circled around me like moths to a flame, and I saw that I was desirable to them. They liked me, wanted me, and flattered me.
James was one of them. A bit awkward and shy, yet incredibly kind and attentive, with eyes full of devotion. He practically followed me everywhere, fulfilling my every whim and enduring even my sarcastic jabs. I remember once we were at dinner with friends, I had a bit too much to drink, and didn’t object when he suggested stopping by his place. That night, I was tense and irritated, and he managed to calm me down. It seemed like it would be just a one-time thing.
But things went differently. A month later, I discovered I was pregnant. James, upon hearing the news, was overjoyed. He immediately proposed, and I… accepted. Although, to be honest, I had imagined myself with a different kind of man — confident, daring, dazzling. But James was too gentle, too accommodating. Still, I felt that fate had decided for us, so it must be the right thing to do.
We got married, I moved in with him, and soon gave birth to a son. James treated me like royalty — literally. He wouldn’t let me lift a finger, showered me with gifts, cooked, cleaned, and took care of the baby. I felt like I was in a warm, cozy cage, from which I didn’t really want to escape — but something inside yearned for something else.
When our son was not even a year old, I got pregnant again. Initially, I was scared and considered an abortion, but my mother persuaded me: “Have the baby; let the children grow up together. It’s hard now, but it will get easier later.” I listened. The second pregnancy went by more smoothly, and James was as gentle and caring as ever. He never raised his voice at me, never forbade me from going out with friends, never checked up on me, never reproached me. He was always there.
Yet deep down, I yearned for passion. The kind of love described in books and sung about in songs. I couldn’t stop myself and often had brief affairs. Short, fleeting, with those who sparked a flame in me but offered no warmth. I always came back home. Because only with James did I feel truly safe. He suspected, he must have known. But he never said a word. He just… continued to love me.
Time passed. The children grew. We lived like thousands of other families, and I didn’t give it much thought. I believed I had made a compromise: yes, I could have been with someone more exciting, successful, passionate… but I opted for stability. Calmness. Family.
Then James fell ill.
At first, it seemed nothing serious. A cold, weakness. We didn’t pay much attention. But within weeks, he began losing strength rapidly. Tests, examinations, doctors. And a diagnosis that knocked us off our feet: cancer.
The world collapsed.
I don’t remember standing in that hospital room, listening to the doctor, nor walking down the street, feeling the ground disappear under me. It was only then that I realized how much he meant to me. How deeply I loved him. How terrified I was of losing him. How unimaginable life would be without him.
From that moment, I never left his side. Hospitals, clinics, treatments. I held his hand through the pain. Wiped his forehead when the fever spiked. Comforted him when sleep eluded him. And all the while, a voice inside screamed: “Please, let him survive!”
I pleaded with God, with fate, with the universe — with anyone who would listen. Just to keep him with me. I vowed I would never betray him again, never look at another man. Because now I know: James is my love. True, deep, quiet, but unbreakable.
The doctors gave us hope. They said there was a chance. And we fight. Every day. I am by his side. I am strong. I am his wife — truly.
I don’t know what the future holds. But I know I’m ready to walk any path with him. Till the very end. And if one day I’m meant to close his eyes, I’ll do it with love. But I believe it will turn out differently. I believe he’ll get better. That we’ll be together. That we’ll see our children marry, watch our grandchildren play around the house. That I’ll live to the day when, with wrinkles on my face and grey in my hair, he’ll take my hand and say, “Thank you for being there.”
I pray every day. For him. For us. For a little more time with the one I truly love. Even if it’s late… it’s sincere.
