I realized everything too late: it was only when my husband became seriously ill that I understood how much I love him.
When I married James, I was just twenty-five. Armed with a fresh degree, the future seemed wide open to me. I was confident, proud of my intellect and appearance, and always believed I could choose any man I wanted. They flocked around me like moths to a flame, and I knew they desired me, wanted me, flattered me.
James was one of them. A little awkward and shy, but incredibly kind and attentive, with eyes full of devotion. He practically followed me everywhere, fulfilling my every whim and even enduring my sharp remarks. I remember one evening at a dinner with friends, I had a bit too much to drink, and didn’t refuse when he offered to take me to his place. That night, I was tense and irritable, but he managed to calm me down. Back then, I thought it would be a one-time thing.
But things turned out differently. A month later, I found out I was pregnant. When James heard the news, he was beaming with happiness. He promptly proposed to me, and I… accepted. To be honest, I had imagined myself with a different kind of man — confident, daring, dazzling. But James was too gentle, too accommodating. Yet, I felt that fate had decided this for a reason, so I went along with it.
We got married, I moved in with him, and soon gave birth to our son. James treated me like a queen — quite literally. He wouldn’t let me lift a finger, spoiled me with gifts, cooked, cleaned, and took care of the baby. I felt like I was in a cozy, warm cocoon that I didn’t really want to leave, yet something inside me longed for something else.
When our son wasn’t even a year old, I became pregnant again. Initially, I was scared and considered an abortion, but my mother convinced me otherwise: “Have the baby, let the children grow together. It’s tough now, but it will get easier.” I followed her advice. The second pregnancy went smoothly, and James remained as kind and caring as ever. He never raised his voice at me, never forbade outings with friends, never controlled or criticized me. He was always there.
Yet deep down, I missed passion. The kind of love they write about in books and sing about in songs. I couldn’t help myself — and allowed affairs with others. Brief, fleeting encounters with those who ignited a spark but offered no warmth. I always returned home. Because only with James did I truly feel 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 much thought to it. I considered it a compromise: yes, I could have been with someone more vibrant, successful, passionate… but I chose stability. Peace. Family.
Then James fell ill.
At first, it seemed like nothing serious. A cold, fatigue. We paid little attention to it. But within weeks, his strength was rapidly dwindling. Tests, examinations, doctors. And a diagnosis that knocks you to the ground: cancer.
The world collapsed.
I don’t remember standing in that hospital room, hearing the doctor, walking down the street without feeling the ground beneath me. Only then did I realize how much he meant to me. How deeply I loved him. How terrifying it was to think of losing him. How unimaginable life would be without him.
Since then, I haven’t left his side. Hospitals, clinics, treatments. I held his hand when he was in pain. Wiped his brow when he had a fever. Soothed him when he couldn’t sleep. And inside, a voice screamed: “Please, just let him live!”
I pleaded with God, with fate, with the universe — with anyone. Just for him to stay with me. I vowed to never betray him again, never to look at another man. Because now I know: James is my love. True, deep love. Quiet, but unbreakable.
The doctors gave us hope. They said there’s a chance. And we fight. Every single day. I’m here. I’m strong. I’m his wife — truly.
I don’t know what the future holds. But I know I’m ready to walk any path with him. To the very end. And if one day it’s my fate to close his eyes, I’ll do it with love. But I believe — things will be different. I believe he will recover. That we’ll be together. That we’ll see our children get married, our grandchildren running around the house. That I’ll live to the day when, with wrinkles on my face and grey in my hair, he’ll hold 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. Perhaps late… but sincerely.
