When my husband came home late, I pretended to be asleep to take his exam… And found that it was worse than cheating.

My husband came home late, I pretended to be asleep to test his feelings… And I found out something worse than an affair.
At least the affair gives me a reason to talk, to exercise restraint. But here… I don’t know what I’m going to face.

From the day we got married, I always thought my husband was a decent man. He was humble, hardworking, and never raised a loud voice on me. But in recent months, he often came home late. When I asked, he simply shrugged his eyes by saying “busy with work.”

A wife is very sensitive. It wasn’t because of the weird perfume or the lipstick on her collar, but because of the hidden distance in every word and touch.

That night, it was midnight in New Delhi, and they quietly opened the door to our small apartment in Lajpat Nagar. I lay facing the wall, pretending to be asleep. Hearing the sound of slow footsteps, I thought to myself: “If they messed something up, I’d know right away. ”

He sat down on the edge of the bed. But instead of touching me or looking at his phone, he just let out a light sigh. Then he put his hand in his bag, took out a thick envelope and quietly hid it in the drawer of his desk. Then, he opened a small drawer, took out a medicine box from it, and stared at the empty street by the window for a long time, as if struggling with some trouble.

My heart was pounding.

The next morning, when he went to work, I opened the drawer. Inside, there were 7-8 envelopes with the date clearly written on them. Each envelope contained around ₹50,000. The medicine box contained fast painkillers and a medical record: a diagnosis of stomach cancer at a large hospital in New Delhi. I was trembling so much that I could barely stand up. The date of diagnosis was clearly written: “Requires immediate hospitalization.” But four months had passed, and he hadn’t said anything to me—just quietly saved the money… So that I can take care of me in the future.

I called the doctor. On the other hand, she said: “Your husband refused to seek treatment immediately. He said he didn’t want his wife to find out, he feared she would get worried, and that the treatment for the disease was mainly to prolong his life. I fell to the ground, tears streaming down my face.

That night, I stopped pretending to be asleep. When he came back, I hugged him, crying and asking: “Why did you hide this from me? He stroked my hair and smiled lightly: “You know? I’m not afraid of death, just afraid of your suffering. I want to take care of everything first…”

What I discovered that day was not a betrayal, but a silent renunciation that was heartbreaking. Worse than adultery for me was knowing that the person I loved was suffering alone, shortening his life every day, just to keep me from worrying.

From that day on, I didn’t let him fight alone. We went to the hospital together in New Delhi, and listened to the doctor’s advice on treatment plans. I don’t know what the road ahead will be but I believe that amidst the hustle and bustle of this city, all fear will disappear just by holding hands.

The next morning, there was still fog in the city. I made masala chai, my hands trembling so much that the sugar fell on the table. He sat quietly in his chair, his eyes deep, and he looked at me as if apologizing. I held his hand.

“Let’s go to the hospital today,” I said. He paused for a moment, then nodded.

We arrived at the oncology department of a large hospital in New Delhi. The aisle smelled of antiseptic, the rattle of trolleys, and the silent faces waiting for their turn. The doctor looked at the records, ordered another endoscopy, biopsy, and PET-CT scan. While waiting for the results, I sat by the window looking at the canopy of the old banyan tree, and he said, “If you’re too tired… So you can go home first. I shook my head. “I’ll stay here. Until we go home together. ”

As the afternoon wore on, the doctor called me into the room. He said softly: “The tumor is in the abdomen, not in the final stages. It’s not easy, but it’s a possibility. We’ll treat it according to the protocol: chemotherapy, see how it responds, then consider surgery. I felt a burning sensation in my chest, I was also scared and clinging to the words “possibility.”

Leaving the room, he said that he himself would go and deposit the deposit. I went after him and saw some old envelopes in his hand—I recognized the dates. They were about to give them to the cashier. I grabbed his hand. “Let me do it. I took off the gold bracelet my mother had given me on our wedding day, and took out the little money left in my wallet. The finance worker asked: “Do you have insurance?” I replied on their behalf: “We will pay for it ourselves.” ”

That night, coming back to Lajpat Nagar, I cleaned out my desk drawer to keep new files. Beneath the pile of papers, I found a notebook with a black envelope. As soon as I opened the pages, the busy work schedule was clearly visible on every page: alternating shifts, extra work in the warehouse, and earning some extra money by transporting goods on a motorcycle even at night. Each amount was written in blue ink, with the last line saying: “If… So leave me.” The words were broken. I bit my lips until blood came out of them.

“Why did you choose to endure all this alone?” I asked as she took a shower, water still dripping from her hair. He sat down, his warm hand on my knee. “Because I was afraid to see you worried. I was afraid to see your sad eyes. ”

I said softly: “But your silence frightened me more than anything. ”

The days of chemotherapy began. The smell of metal lingered in his throat. I got used to writing down everything: the timing of the medication, the easy-to-digest menu, the side effects reported to the doctor. I made soft khichdi and moong dal soup, in small portions. He ate very little, but whenever he saw me smiling and trying, he would try to put in another spoon.

One day, she was constantly vomiting, sweating cold, and I hugged her in the bathroom. “It’s all right,” I whispered, though I was trembling more than he did. That night, I warmed a towel, covered her stomach, and watched until morning, my eyes burning. Dawn crept through the curtains, the light as thin as paper. He opened his eyes, laughed, and said: “You’ve been up all night?” “Let’s change shifts for a while,” he said jokingly, “so that I can sleep, you too… Go to sleep. We both laughed, the sound so faint as if a spoon was hitting the edge of the bowl.

In the middle of the second treatment, her hair started falling. He looked in the mirror and was silent for a long time. That night, I laid a towel on the chair and put a clipper borrowed from a neighbor. “Give it to me. “I cut her hair little by little. They were falling like dried marigold petals on the tiled floor in the holidays. When I stopped, he reached out his hand to touch his head—smooth, unfamiliar. I took an eyeliner pen, drew a little heart on his wrist and wrote “Live” next to it. She looked at him and smiled: “How childish. I put her hand to my lips. “But it’s a promise. ”

The money ran out sooner than we expected. I thought about selling my wedding ring, but burst into tears when I touched it. The next day, Aunt Asha knocked downstairs on the door. “Little girl, there’s a collection in the building. Everybody knows about it. I was stunned. Asha handed me a small cloth bag containing some loose money and some notes written by neighbours: “Get well soon,” “Praying for you.” “I hugged my aunt. In a big city like New Delhi, it turned out that people still have small courtyards in their hearts.

In the evening, he got a call from his boss. He went to the balcony to pick up the phone. The night air smelled of rainwater and coal smoke from the barbecue restaurant at the end of the street. He turned, his eyes moist. “They… Sent me to work from home, reduced my working hours but retained the internal insurance amount for the treatment. They even gave me an extra month’s salary. I breathed a sigh of relief, the corners of my eyes burning. “Look,” I said jokingly, “there’s always a way out when I say it. ”

On Sunday, I took her to Gurudwara Bangla Sahib. We sat by the lake, watching the reflection of the temple. He clasped his hands for a long time. I didn’t ask for much, just so that I wouldn’t be weak in front of them. On the way back, she took my hand: “If someday I am too tired…” I immediately interrupted: “Trust me, then. ”

As the third chemotherapy session was over, the doctor ordered a re-evaluation of the response. I sat in the waiting room holding the edge of the chair, my palms drenched in sweat. The doctor opened the X-ray and, tapping with a pen on the screen, said: “The tumor is showing signs of shrinking.” We will keep this protocol until the next cycle. If the reaction continues, we will talk about surgery. I heard the sound of wings flapping somewhere in my chest—a sparrow and a storm. He looked at me, his eyes as hot as coals.

That night, when they got home, they pulled out one last envelope from their drawers. It wasn’t money. This was a short letter she had written four months earlier:

“If you read this, I probably won’t have time to tell you. I’m not so much afraid of death as I am of being alone. But if a miracle happens—I want to grow old with you, quarrel over washing the dishes, and then reconcile with a hot cup of tea. ”

I folded the letter and placed it in his hand. “Miracles don’t happen by themselves,” I said, “you create them.” ”

I opened my phone and typed out a note: Life Plan.

Change the menu for him every week.

Take him for a walk every afternoon from Lajpat Nagar to the small park at the end of the street.

Every night at 9 p.m., tell each other one thing you’re grateful for for the day.

Every couple of weeks, stop at the temple, light a candle.

When you’re scared, you have to say it. When you are tired, you are allowed to cry. But tomorrow morning, be sure to get up early.

He laughingly reads it: “This plan… It’s tough, but it’s beautiful. ”

“Because you deserve a beautiful plan,” I answer.

Outside, the honking of vehicles mingles with the sound of the bells of the street vendors, New Delhi still cannot sleep at night. But in a small room in Lajpat Nagar, we draw curtains to light our lights: quiet, persistent, not bright, but very hot. And for the first time since that night, I saw the future not as a closed black door, but as a long road, two people walking hand in hand—by the smell of medicine, by the radiation session, by the unseasonal rain—to reach a normal day, where there was hot khichdi for breakfast, where he looked at me and said: “We did it. ”