The summer rain in Lucknow was pounding hard on the tin roof of the shabby rented room where my mother and I had been living for almost a year. My son, Aarav, lay wrapped in a thin blanket, his body burning. Every time he coughed, my heart felt like someone was squeezing it.

“He has pneumonia. He needs to be hospitalized immediately. Arrange for the hospital fees.” The doctor at the private clinic shook his head after examining the X-ray. “Delay is fatal.”

Hospital fees. These two words stabbed me like a knife. I worked as an hourly maid in Delhi, my income was unstable, and after months of treating my son, my savings were exhausted. I had no relatives, and even my friends were poor. I had taken loans from everywhere, and now there was no one left to call.

Only… one person remained.

I sat in front of the gate of that familiar old house in the old residential area of ​​Kanpur city, my hands trembling with cold and shame. This was Raj’s house – my ex-husband – the man I once loved deeply, who had promised to be with me for life. But life is no dream. Our marriage ended after five years, partly due to poverty, partly because I couldn’t tolerate his increasing indifference. After the divorce, I took my child, who wasn’t even three years old, and moved to Delhi to earn a living. He’s been missing ever since.

I rang the bell. A moment later, the door opened. He stood there, still tall and gaunt, his eyes colder than before.

“What are you doing here?” – his voice was indifferent, as if I were a stranger.

I suppressed my complaint, bowing my head:
“Our child is seriously ill. I… I have no other choice. Please, if you can… help him just once.”
He was silent. After a moment, he turned and went inside the house. I heard rustling sounds, then he came back and threw out an old, worn coat.

“Take this and go. I have nothing for you. Don’t ever come back.”

The shirt fell to the floor, soaked in the rain. He slammed the door shut, not even bothering to look at me.

I stood there stunned, the rain mixing with my tears.

The next morning, I went to the bank to check the shirt, as there was an ATM card in the bag. The staff confirmed it was genuine: the account was in Raj – my ex-husband’s name – and the current balance was 10 lakh rupees (about 300 million Vietnamese dong). I couldn’t believe my ears. I couldn’t sleep the entire night, feeling happy, worried, and indescribable pain.

I spent the money needed to hospitalize Aarav. He received emergency care, antibiotics, and oxygen. Fortunately, thanks to timely diagnosis, he was out of danger after three days of treatment.

I didn’t dare call Raj. I didn’t even return his card, even though I often stood outside his house with my hands in my pockets. He said, “Don’t come back.” I didn’t want to break my promise. Perhaps it was his way of distancing himself from the past. But I knew clearly: the cold man from that day wasn’t heartless. He had helped—and he had helped me in a way that made me want to pull myself together.

A week later, the doctor announced that Aarav’s condition was stable and he could be discharged in a few days. I felt like I was alive. I bought a small packet of fruit, intending to take it to Raj to thank him—not for Raj, but for his parents, who loved me so much. But when I got there, the door was locked. I asked the neighbors, and I was stunned when they said:

“Raj has just moved. He seems to be working in Canada. I saw him packing recently, and he gave some old clothes to some people in the neighborhood.”

I asked if he had left a message. The neighbor simply shook her head: “No. But he seemed in a hurry.”

I returned, my heart aching.

Three months later…

I received a letter from Canada. The handwriting was familiar, scrawled but clear. It was from Raj.

“I didn’t mean to say that, but I know you probably will. Why did I help you without seeing you again, without telling you anything?
The truth is… I had early-stage leukemia. I decided to go abroad because I had the chance to try a new treatment. I don’t know how much time I have left. But I don’t want you and your child to be drowned in fear and insecurity. I know you’re strong. You’ve always been like this, since we were poor. I just hope, if possible, that you’ll forgive me—for not being a good husband. And for separating in the worst way possible.

I used to think divorce was everything. But when I heard my child was sick, I realized: there are some relationships in life that never end. Aarav is ours. You’re part of my memories that I cherish.

That torn shirt that day, I did it on purpose—because I knew if I had seen you cry, If you see me, I won’t have the courage to go again.”

I clutched the letter tightly, tears welling up. Raj was still Raj—a man who was a little awkward with his expressions, but thoughtful and responsible when needed.

I wrote back. No promises, no blame. Just that Aarav was fine, had started kindergarten. And if he ever returned, he would surely be happy to have his father with him.

For me, this story doesn’t have a fairy tale ending. But it’s enough for me to believe: sometimes, love exists in the quietest way. And in life’s darkest moments, kindness—however delayed or silent—is the lamp that warms the human heart.