I realized everything too late: only when my husband fell seriously ill did I understand how deeply I love him.
When I married John, I was only twenty-five. I had a fresh degree and a world of opportunities ahead. I was brimming with confidence, proud of my intelligence and looks, and believed I could have any man I wanted. They flocked around me like moths to a flame, and I knew they needed me. I was admired, desired, and flattered.
John was one of them. A bit awkward and shy but incredibly kind, attentive, with eyes full of devotion. He literally followed me everywhere, fulfilled my every whim, and endured even my sharp remarks. I remember one night out with friends when I had a bit too much to drink and didn’t refuse his offer to visit him. That night, I was tense and irritable, and he managed to calm me down. I thought it would be a one-off encounter.
But it didn’t turn out that way. A month later, I found out I was pregnant. John was overjoyed when he heard about it. He proposed immediately, and I agreed, though deep down, I had always imagined myself with a different kind of man—confident, daring, charismatic. John was too gentle, too accommodating. Still, I thought if fate decided this way, maybe it was meant to be.
We got married, I moved in with him, and soon gave birth to our son. John pampered me—literally carrying me in his arms. 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—one I didn’t really want to escape from, but inside, I craved something more.
Before our son turned one, I was pregnant again. Initially, I was scared and considered an abortion, but my mother persuaded me: “Have the baby; it’s better for them to grow up together. It’s tough now, but it will get easier.” So, I listened. The second pregnancy became routine, and John remained as gentle and caring as ever. He never raised his voice at me, never forbade me from seeing friends, never controlled or reproached me. He was always there.
Yet, deep inside, I longed for passion. The kind of love written about in books and sung in songs. I couldn’t stop myself and had several fleeting flings. Brief encounters with those who sparked a flame but didn’t provide warmth. I always returned home. Because only with John did I feel truly secure. I think he knew. Surely, he did. But he never said a word. He just… continued to love me.
Time passed. The children grew. We lived like countless families, and I didn’t give it much thought. I believed I had settled for a compromise: yes, I could have been with someone more vibrant, successful, passionate… but I chose stability. Peace. Family.
Then John became ill.
At first, it seemed nothing severe. A cold, some weakness. We dismissed it. But within weeks, he began losing energy rapidly. Tests, examinations, doctors. Then the devastating diagnosis—cancer.
The world crumbled.
I don’t remember much about standing in that hospital room, listening to the doctor, or walking down the street feeling like the ground had disappeared beneath me. It was only then I realized how precious he was to me. How much I truly love him. How terrifying it was to imagine losing him. How impossible life seemed without him.
From that moment, I didn’t leave his side. Hospital visits, clinics, treatments. I held his hand when he was in pain. Wiped his brow when his fever spiked. Soothed his back when he couldn’t sleep. Inside, I was screaming, “Please, let him live!”
I pleaded with God, fate, the universe—anyone who’d listen. Just let him stay with me. I promised myself never to betray him again, never to look at another man. Because now I knew: John was my love. True. Deep. Quiet but unbreakable.
The doctors gave us hope. They said there was a chance. And we fight. Every day. I’m by his side. I’m strong. I’m his wife—in every sense.
I don’t know what lies ahead. But I know I’m ready to walk any path with him. To the very end. And if fate decrees I should close his eyes one day, I’ll do it with love. But I believe things will turn out differently. I believe he’ll recover. That we’ll be together. That we’ll see our children marry and grandchildren run around the house. That I’ll live to the day, with wrinkles and gray hair, when he takes my hand and says, “Thank you for being there.”
I pray every day. For him. For us. For the gift of more time with the one I truly love. Even if it’s late… it’s genuine.
