I realized everything too late: only when my husband fell seriously ill did I understand how deeply I love him.
When I married Oliver, I was just twenty-five. I had a fresh degree and the world at my feet. I was confident, proud of my looks and intelligence, and always thought I could pick any man I desired. They fluttered around me like moths to a flame, making it clear I was sought after. I was liked, wanted, and flattered.
Oliver was one of them. Slightly awkward, shy, yet incredibly kind, attentive, with eyes full of devotion. He practically followed me everywhere, catering to my whims and even tolerated my sarcasm. I remember one night during dinner with friends, I took his offer to stop by his place after having a bit too much to drink. That night, despite being tense and irritable, he managed to calm me down. At that moment, I thought it would be just a one-time thing.
But things took a different turn. A month later, I discovered I was pregnant. Oliver beamed with joy upon finding out. He immediately proposed, and I… accepted. Although, to be honest, I had imagined a different kind of man by my side—confident, daring, dazzling. Oliver seemed too soft, too accommodating. But I thought, if fate decided it this way, then it must be right.
We married, I moved in with him, and soon I gave birth to our son. Oliver 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 cozy, warm cage I didn’t want to leave, yet something inside craved for more.
Before our son turned one, I was pregnant again. Initially scared and considering an abortion, my mum persuaded me: “Have them grow up together. It’s tough now, but it will be easier later.” I listened. The second pregnancy was more familiar, and Oliver remained as gentle and caring as ever. He never raised his voice at me, stopped me from going out with friends, controlled me, or reproached me. He was always there.
Yet, deep down, I missed the passion. The kind of love books are written about and songs are sung. I couldn’t help myself and occasionally had short-lived flings on the side. Brief and fleeting, with those who sparked an interest but offered no warmth. I always returned home. Because only with Oliver did I feel truly safe. He likely suspected. Probably knew. But he never said a word. He just… continued to love me.
Time flew by. The children grew. We lived like countless families, and I never gave it much thought. I believed I had settled for a compromise: yes, I could have chosen someone more exciting, successful, passionate… but I chose stability. Peace. Family.
Then Oliver fell ill.
At first, it seemed trivial. A cold, some weakness. We didn’t pay much heed. But within weeks, his strength drained rapidly. Tests, examinations, doctors. And then the life-altering diagnosis: cancer.
Life shattered.
I can’t recall how I stood in that hospital ward, listening to the doctor, or walked the streets, feeling disconnected from the ground beneath. Only then did I realize how much he meant to me. How deeply I loved him. The terror of losing him. The impossibility of imagining life without him.
From that point on, I never left his side. Hospitals, clinics, treatments. I held his hand during the pain. Wiped his brow when the fever spiked. Comforted him when sleep was elusive. And each time, I screamed inside: “Please, let him live!”
I pleaded with God, fate, the universe—anything at all to let him stay with me. I vowed to never betray him again, to never look at another man. Because now I knew: Oliver is my true love. Genuine. Deep. Quiet, yet unbreakable.
The doctors gave us hope. They said there was a chance. And we’re fighting. Every single day. I’m here. I’m strong. I’m his wife—truly.
I don’t know what the future holds. But I undoubtedly know that I’m now prepared to walk any path with him. Until the very end. And if one day I’m destined to close his eyes, I’ll do it with love. But I believe—it will turn out differently. I believe he’ll get better. We will be together. We’ll see our children marry and our grandchildren play in our home. I hope to live until the day when, with wrinkles and silver 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. It’s late… but sincere.
