Two months after our divorce, I was stunned to see my wife walking around the hospital. And when I learned the truth, I was devastated.

Two months after our divorce, I was stunned to see my wife walking around the hospital. And when I learned the truth, I was devastated…
Two months after our divorce, I was stunned to see my wife walking around the hospital. And when I learned the truth, I was devastated.

I never imagined I would see her there—wearing a pale hospital gown, sitting silently in a corner of the corridor, surrounded by dozens of exhausted faces, with dull, lifeless eyes, as if the whole world had abandoned her. And in that moment, my heart felt as if it were being crushed. She—my ex-wife, Maya, whom I had divorced just two months earlier.

My name is Arjun (34), an ordinary office worker. My marriage lasted five years and seemed stable from the outside. My wife, Maya, was gentle and kind—not exceptionally beautiful, but she always brought me a sense of peace when I came home.

Like any other couple, we had dreams: buying a house, having children, starting a small family. But after Maya suffered two miscarriages in our third year of marriage, the atmosphere at home changed. She became quiet, and her eyes often seemed distant. I began feeling exhausted after work, returning home only to be met with sighs and cold faces.

I don’t deny that this was partly my fault. I started coming home late, avoiding conversation, making excuses about work to avoid the growing emptiness between us. Gradually, small arguments became more frequent, even though neither of us wanted to hurt the other. One day in April, after a small but exhausting fight, I quietly said:

“Let’s get a divorce, Maya.”

She looked at me for a long time, then simply said:

“You’ve made up your mind, haven’t you?”

I nodded. She didn’t cry or yell, as I’d expected. She just nodded silently and packed her clothes that night. The divorce papers were signed quickly, as if we’d both mentally prepared for it long ago.

After the divorce, I moved into a rented apartment in New Delhi, living a simple life: going to work, occasionally going out for drinks, or watching movies at home. No one cooked for me, no acquaintances asked, “Have you eaten?” But I didn’t let myself feel weak. I convinced myself I was doing the right thing—at least at that time.

Two months passed. I was living like a shadow of myself. Many nights, I woke up from nightmares, calling Maya’s name in my dreams.

That day, I had gone to AIIMS in New Delhi to visit my best friend, Rohit, who had recently undergone surgery. As I walked through the corridors of the internal medicine department, I instinctively turned my head, feeling a sense of familiarity. And then I saw Maya.

She was wearing a light blue hospital gown, her hair cut short—something she hated because she had always loved her long hair. Her face was pale and thin, her eyes hollow and lifeless. An IV drip was attached to her side.

I froze. My heart was pounding. Questions raced through my mind: What happened to her? Why didn’t anyone tell me? Why was she alone?

Trembling I approached and said:

“Maya?”

She looked up. Her dull eyes sparkled with surprise.

“You… Arjun?”

“What are you doing here? What happened to you?”

She avoided my gaze and turned away. Her voice was barely a whisper:

“Nothing… just a routine checkup.”

I took her hand and sat down beside her. It was cold.

“You don’t need to hide anything from me. Seeing you like this… how can I believe you’re okay?”

After a pause, she whispered:

“I… just found out I have early-stage ovarian cancer. The doctor said it can be treated if I follow a diet. But I have no insurance, no one is with me, and… after leaving home, I don’t have much money left.”

I was stunned. Her words pierced my heart like a knife. For two months, I had been living a false peace, while she—once my wife, who lay in my arms every night—was silently enduring indescribable pain.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” my voice caught.

“We were divorced. I didn’t want to be a burden. I… thought I could handle it myself.

I didn’t know what to say. Guilt overwhelmed me like a tidal wave.

That day, I stayed with her until evening. For the first time in months, we talked like family—no blame, no pride.

Before leaving, I said:

“Maya, let me stay with you. Even though we’re not married anymore, I can’t leave you like this.”

She smiled sadly:

“Do you pity me?”

– “No. I… really love you.”

The next morning, I returned to AIIMS with a container of hot khichdi and some oranges. Maya was surprised to see me but said nothing. Perhaps she had expected me to come, but she wasn’t sure.

In the days that followed, I almost quit my job to be with her. I accompanied her to tests, waited for every medication, followed every dietary instruction from her doctors. I didn’t understand why I felt compelled to do this—out of penance, out of remorse, or simply because… I still loved her.

One afternoon, while preparing her hospital bed, Maya suddenly said:

– “Do you know… I knew I was sick before the divorce?

I froze.

– “What?”

– “A week before you asked for a divorce, I had been going to the doctor repeatedly for stomach pains. The biopsy results came back the same day we had our fight.

I turned to her, feeling like I’d been punched in the heart.

– “Why didn’t you say anything?”

– “I knew… If I had told you, you would have avoided responsibility, not because you still loved me. I didn’t want that. I wanted you to be free… at least as a person not bound by pain.”

I couldn’t hold back my tears.

“Do you think I’m that kind of person? That I won’t suffer?”

Maya looked at me for a long time and smiled—the most serene smile I’d ever seen.

“It’s not that I don’t trust you. But I don’t want you to spend your whole life with a sick person, pretending to be happy every day. I can’t bear it.”

I had no answer. She was right in many ways. At that moment, I really wanted to let her go. I saw her as a burden—unaware that I was the one who had abandoned her to this cruel world.

About a week later, Maya was transferred to the general treatment ward, where chemotherapy began. I arranged a folding bed in a relative’s room and stayed at the hospital to care for her. For the first time in years, I learned to truly listen: when she was in pain, when the medicine made her vomit, when she laughed at something small.

One night, when she was fast asleep, I looked through her bag and found a small envelope with a note: “If Arjun ever reads this, please forgive me.”

Confused, I opened it after a little hesitation:
Arjun,
If you’re reading this, I probably don’t have the strength to speak anymore. I know you were upset by my cold and silent behavior. But I didn’t want to tire you out. You didn’t deserve to be dragged through this helplessness.
I got pregnant again—just for a short time. I didn’t have the courage to tell anyone, afraid I’d lose control like before. And then it happened… I lost the baby after just six weeks. The doctor said it was due to my weak body and… the tumor that developed later.
I divorced you to preserve beautiful memories for you, not the image of a weak wife associated with IVs and the smell of antiseptic. But I still love you very much. I just… keep that love to myself.
Even if I could go back, I would choose to leave. Because I knew… you needed a different life.
But thank you… for loving me.

I clutched the letter, trembling as if the whole world had fallen from my hands. Everything she had hidden from me—the miscarriage, the cancer diagnosis, leaving home—was meant to protect me from pain. And yet, it hurt me a hundredfold more.

A week later, Dr. Kapoor called me into his private room.

“Maya’s condition is worsening. The tumor isn’t responding well to chemotherapy. We’ll try other treatments, but the chances of a complete recovery are slim.”

I felt my strength completely drained. For the first time in my life, I feared losing someone.

That night, I held her hand in the hospital room. She was weak, barely able to speak. I whispered in her ear:

– “If possible… I want to marry you again. I don’t care about the papers. I just want to see you every morning and hold your hand every night. We don’t need a new beginning, just be together for as long as you want.”

Maya touched my cheek and smiled softly. Tears streamed down her face, but her lips twisted into a smile.

– “I… agree.”

Over the following days, we quietly held a small wedding ceremony in the hospital room: a nurse tied a makeshift red thread, some marigold flowers gifted by someone. No music, no guests, just the beeping of IV machines and whispered promises.

Three months later, Maya passed away in my arms. In that short time, we were husband and wife again. I still keep the old wedding photo and the letter she left – a sacred testament to the woman who silently loved me, sacrificing her pain and even her life.

I no longer cry every night like I used to. But every time I walk through the corridors of AIIMS, I remember that stunned gaze—the gaze that changed the rest of my life. And amidst the hustle and bustle of New Delhi, I still hear a faint whisper:

“Thank you for loving me.