I realized everything too late: it was only when my husband fell seriously ill that I understood how deeply I loved him.
When I married John, I was just twenty-five. I had a fresh degree in my hand, and the future seemed bright. I was confident, proud of my intelligence and appearance, and I thought I could choose any man I wanted. Men hovered around me like moths to a flame, and I knew they were attracted to me. They liked me, desired me, and flattered me.
John was among them. A bit awkward, shy, but incredibly kind and attentive, with eyes full of devotion. He practically followed me around, indulging my every whim, even enduring my sharp remarks. I remember one evening we were out with friends, and I had a bit too much to drink. I didn’t refuse when he suggested we stop by his place. That night I was tense and irritable, and he managed to calm me. At the time, I thought it was just a one-time thing.
But things took a different turn. A month later, I discovered I was pregnant. When John found out, he was overjoyed. He immediately proposed, and I… accepted. To be honest, I had always imagined myself with a different kind of man—confident, bold, dazzling. But John was too gentle, too easygoing. Still, I thought, if this was how fate had arranged things, then it must be meant to be.
We got married, I moved in with him, and soon after, I gave birth to a son. John practically carried me on his hands—literally. He wouldn’t let me lift a finger, showered me with gifts, cooked, cleaned, and looked after our baby. I felt like I was in a cozy, warm cocoon—safe, but with a part of me longing for something else.
When our son was less than a year old, I got pregnant again. Initially frightened and considering an abortion, my mother advised, “Have the child, let them grow up together. It’s hard now, but it’ll be easier later.” I listened. The second pregnancy was familiar by then, and John remained as gentle and caring as ever. He never raised his voice at me, never stopped me from going out with friends, never controlled or reproached me. He was simply always there.
But deep down, I missed the passion. The kind of love you read about in books and hear in songs. I couldn’t stop myself and had affairs on the side. Short, fleeting, with those who sparked excitement but didn’t provide warmth. I always came home. Because with John, I felt truly safe. He probably suspected, maybe even knew. But he never said a word. He simply… continued to love me.
Time went by. The kids grew up. We lived like countless families, and I didn’t dwell on it much. I thought I had accepted a compromise: yes, I could have been with someone more vibrant, successful, passionate… but I chose stability. Peace. Family.
Then John fell ill.
At first, it seemed not serious—a cold, some weakness. We paid it no mind. But within weeks, he began to lose strength rapidly. Tests, examinations, doctors. And a diagnosis that knocked the wind out of me: cancer.
The world fell apart.
I don’t remember standing in that hospital room, listening to the doctor, or how I walked the street feeling numb. Only then did I realize how much John meant to me. How deeply I loved him. How terrifying the thought of losing him was. How impossible life without him seemed.
From that moment on, I never left his side. Hospitals, clinics, treatments. I held his hand when he was in pain, wiped his brow when fever struck, soothed his back when he couldn’t sleep. And each time, a voice inside me screamed, “Please, let him survive!”
I pleaded with God, fate, the universe—anyone that would listen. Just please, let him stay with me. I swore to myself that I would never betray him again, that I wouldn’t cast my eyes toward another man. Because now I knew: John is my love. True, deep, quiet, yet unshakable.
Doctors gave us hope. They said there was a chance. And we’re fighting. Every single day. I am by his side. I am strong. I am his wife—truly.
I don’t know what the future holds. But I do know that now I am ready to walk any path with him. All the way to the end. And if fate decrees that I must one day close his eyes, I will do it with love. But I believe it won’t come to that. I believe he will recover. That we will be together. That we will see our children get married, watch our grandchildren play around the home. That I’ll live to see the day when, faces lined with age and hair turned grey, he’ll take my hand and say, “Thank you for staying with me.”
I pray every day. For him. For us. For more time with the one I truly love. Late, perhaps, but sincere.
