I realized everything too late: only when my husband fell seriously ill did I understand how deeply I love him.
I married James when I was just twenty-five. I had a fresh degree and the world seemed open with endless possibilities. I was confident, proud of my intellect and looks, always believing I could choose any man I wanted. Men swarmed around me like moths to a flame, and I knew I was desired, admired, and wanted.
James was one of them. A bit awkward, shy, but incredibly kind and attentive, with eyes full of devotion. He followed me everywhere, indulged my every whim, and even endured my sarcasm. I remember one night we were out for dinner with friends, and I ended up having a few too many drinks. When he offered to take me to his place, I didn’t refuse. That night, though tense and irritable, he managed to calm me down, and it seemed like it was just going to be a one-off.
However, things took a different turn. A month later, I discovered I was pregnant. Upon hearing the news, James was over the moon. He immediately proposed, and I… agreed. Although, to be honest, I had always imagined myself with a different kind of man—confident, daring, dazzling. But James was gentle and convenient. Still, I thought if fate had brought us together, perhaps it was meant to be.
We married, I moved in with him, and soon after, we had a son. James treated me like I was precious, 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. It felt like I was in a cozy, warm cage that I didn’t want to escape—yet, deep down, I longed for something more.
When our son wasn’t even a year old, I fell pregnant again. At first, I was scared and considered not going through with it, but my mother encouraged me, saying, “Have the baby, let them grow up together. It’s tough now, but it’ll get easier.” I listened. The second pregnancy passed as expected, and James remained just as gentle and caring. He never raised his voice, never stopped me from going out with friends, never tried to control me or reproach me. He was always there.
But deep down, I missed the passion. The kind of love that’s written about in books and sung about in songs. I couldn’t stop myself and often had brief affairs on the side. Fleeting encounters with those who sparked a flame but gave no warmth. I always returned home, as only with James did I feel truly safe. He probably knew, he must have, yet he never said a word. He simply… continued to love me.
Time flew by. The children grew. We lived like thousands of other families, and I never gave it much thought. I believed I had chosen a compromise: yes, I could have been with someone more vibrant, successful, passionate… but I chose stability. Peace. Family.
And then James got sick.
At first, it didn’t seem serious. A cold, some weakness. We paid it no mind. But within weeks, his strength waned drastically. Tests, examinations, doctors. And then, the shattering diagnosis: cancer.
The world fell apart.
I don’t remember much about standing in that hospital room, listening to the doctor, or walking down the street without feeling the ground beneath me. It was at that moment I truly realized how much he meant to me. How deeply I loved him. How terrifying it was to think of losing him. How impossible life seemed without him.
From then on, I never left his side. Hospitals, clinics, treatments. I held his hand when he was in pain. Wiped his brow when fever struck. Comforted him when sleep was elusive. And inside, I constantly cried, “God, just let him survive!”
I begged God, fate, the universe—anyone who would listen. Just for him to stay with me. I vowed to myself that I would never betray him again, never look at another man. Because now I knew: James is my true love. Real. Deep. Quiet but unbreakable.
The doctors gave us hope. They said there was a chance. And we’re fighting. Every day. I’m by his side. I’m strong. I’m truly his wife.
I don’t know what the future holds. But I do know that I’m ready to walk any path with him. To the very end. And if I’m ever meant to close his eyes one day, I’ll do it with love. But I believe it will be different. I believe he will recover. That we’ll be together. That we’ll see our children get married, grandchildren running through the house. That I’ll live to see the day when, with wrinkles on my face and gray in my hair, he takes my hand and says, “Thank you for being there.”
I pray every day. For him. For us. For a little more time with the one I truly love. It may be late… but it’s sincere.
