Two months after the divorce, I was stunned to find my wife wandering the hospital. And the truth shattered me…
I never imagined I’d see her there – dressed in a yellow hospital gown, with tired faces and blurred eyes, sitting quietly in the corner of the hallway among dozens of people, as if the whole world had abandoned her. And at that moment, my heart felt as if someone was squeezing it. She – my ex-wife, whom I had divorced just two months earlier.

My name is Arjun, 34, an ordinary office worker, whose marriage lasted five years and appears stable. My wife – Maya – is a gentle, kind woman, not particularly attractive, but she makes me feel at peace whenever I come home.

We had dreams like any other couple: buying a house, having children, starting a small family. But after three years of marriage, after Maya suffered two miscarriages, the atmosphere at home began to change. Maya became less talkative, her eyes often gazing off into the distance. I was beginning to feel tired of the days when I would come home from work only to sighs and cold faces.

I didn’t deny that it was my fault. I started coming home late, avoiding conversations with my wife, using work as an excuse to avoid confronting the emptiness between us. Gradually, petty arguments became more frequent, even though neither of us wanted to hurt each other. One day in April, after a short but exhausting argument, I said softly:

— Let’s get a divorce, Maya.

She looked at me for a long time, then said just one sentence:

— You’ve decided, haven’t you?

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

After the divorce, I moved into a rented apartment in New Delhi, living a simple life: going to work in the morning, going out for drinks at night, or coming home to watch a movie. There was no one to cook, no morning clatter of slippers, and no familiar voice asking: “Did you eat?” But I didn’t let myself be weak. I was convinced I was right—at least at that time.

Two months passed. I lived like a shadow. There were nights when I would wake up in the middle of a nightmare and find myself calling Maya’s name.

That day, I had gone to AIIMS (All India Institute of Medical Sciences) Hospital in New Delhi to visit my best friend, Rohit, who had just undergone surgery. As I walked through the corridor of the Internal Medicine Department, I involuntarily turned my head because I sensed someone familiar. And then I saw Maya.

She sat there, wearing a light blue hospital gown, her hair cut strangely short – she loved her long hair so much. Her face was pale, thin, and her eyes were empty and lifeless. An IV drip was attached to her side.

I stood there frozen. My heart was pounding. So many questions raced through my mind: What’s wrong with her? Why didn’t anyone tell me? Why was she sitting there alone?

I went up to her, trembling, and said…

— Maya?

She looked up. Her empty eyes sparkled with surprise.

— You… Arjun?

— What are you doing here? What’s wrong with you?

She turned away, avoiding my gaze. Her voice was as soft as the wind:

— Nothing… Just a health check-up.

I sat down beside her, holding her hand. I felt cold.

— You don’t need to hide from me. Seeing me like this… how could I believe it?

A moment later, she spoke softly:

— I… just found out I have early-stage ovarian cancer. The doctor said it’s curable if I follow the rules. But I don’t have insurance, I have no one with me, and… I won’t have much money left after I leave home.

I was stunned. Her words stabbed me like a knife straight through my heart. For the past two months, I’ve lived in a false sense of peace, while she—who used to be my wife, who lay in my arms every night—is alone enduring an indescribable pain.
— Why didn’t you tell me? — my throat choked.

— We’re divorced. I don’t want to be a burden on you anymore. I… thought I could handle it myself.

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

That day, I sat 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 no longer husband and wife, I can’t leave you like this.

She just smiled sadly:
— Do you feel pity for me?
— No. I… really love you.

The next morning, I returned to AIIMS with a box of hot khichdi and some oranges. Maya was surprised to see me, but she didn’t say anything. Perhaps she had expected me to come, but she wasn’t sure.

Over the next few days, I nearly quit my job to be with him. I took him for checkups, waited for every medication, and even copied every dietary instruction the doctor gave me. I’m not sure what compelled me to do this—to atone, to regret, or simply because… I still loved him.

One afternoon, as I was preparing his hospital bed, Maya suddenly blurted out:
— Do you know… I knew I was sick even before the divorce?

I was stunned.

— What?

— A week before you asked for a divorce, I went to the doctor because of persistent stomach pain. The biopsy results came back the same day we had our fight.

I turned to him, feeling like someone had punched me in the heart.

— Why didn’t you say anything?

— I know… If I tell you, you’ll stay out of responsibility, not because you still love me. I don’t want that. I want you to be free… at least as a person who isn’t bound by pain.

I jumped up, unable to hold back my tears.

— Do you think I’m that kind of person? Do you think I don’t feel pain?

Maya looked at me for a long time. She smiled, the most peaceful smile I’ve 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 that.

I couldn’t answer. Because she was right, to a certain extent. At that moment, I really wanted to leave her. I considered her a burden—without realizing that it was I who had abandoned that woman to this cruel world.

About a week later, Maya was transferred to the general treatment unit, where she began chemotherapy. I borrowed a folding bed from a relative’s room and went to the hospital to care for her. For the first time in years, I learned to truly listen: when she was in pain, when she vomited from the medication, when she laughed at the smallest thing.

One night, while she was fast asleep, I went through her bag and found a small envelope with a note: “If Arjun ever reads this, I’m sorry.”

I was confused. After hesitating for a few seconds, I opened the letter.

Arjun, if you read this, I might not have the strength to speak. I know you’re angry at me for being cold and silent. But I don’t want to tire you out. You don’t deserve to be dragged through this helplessness.

I became pregnant again. For a very short time. I didn’t dare say anything because I was afraid I’d lose my temper like before. And then it came true… I lost the baby just six weeks later. The doctor said it was due to a weak body and… a tumor that had developed afterward.

I divorced you to create beautiful memories for you, not the image of a frail wife, full of IVs and smelling of antiseptic. But I still love you very much. It’s just that… I hold on to that love.

If I could go back, I would still choose to let go. Because I know… you need to live a different life.

But thank you for loving me.

I hugged the letter, trembling as if someone had just dropped the entire world from their hands. The things she hid from me—another miscarriage, then the diagnosis, then the decision to leave home—were all meant to protect me from hurting her. But 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 effective treatments, but the chances of recovery aren’t high.

I felt as if all my strength had been drained. For the first time in my life, I was so afraid of losing someone.

That night, I held her hand in the hospital room. She was weak, and barely had the strength to speak. I sat beside her and whispered in her ear:
— If possible, I… want to get married again. I don’t care about the paperwork. I just want to see you every morning, hold your hand like this every night. We don’t need to start over, just be together as long as you want.

Maya smiled softly, touching my cheek. Tears welled in her eyes, but the smile remained on her face.
— I… agree.

Over the next few days, with utmost simplicity, we celebrated a small wedding ceremony in the hospital room: a nurse temporarily tied a red thread bracelet, and some marigold flowers someone had brought as a gift. No music, no guests, just the beeping of the IV machine and whispered promises.

Three months later, Maya passed away in my arms. In that short time, we had lived like husband and wife again. I still treasure that old wedding photo and the letter she left as two sacred testimonies of the woman who silently loved me so much—to the point of sacrificing her pain, her life.

— I… agree.

In the following days, with utmost simplicity, we celebrated a small wedding ceremony in the hospital room: a nurse temporarily tied a red thread bracelet, and some marigold flowers someone had brought as a gift. No music, no guests, just the beeping of the IV machine and whispered promises.

Three months later, Maya passed away in my arms. In that short time, we had lived like husband and wife again. I still treasure that old wedding photo and the letter she left, two sacred testimonies of the woman who silently loved me so much—to the point of sacrificing her pain, her life.

I no longer cry every night like I used to. But every time I walk down the corridors of the old AIIMS, I remember that shocked look—the look that changed the rest of my life. And amidst the hustle and bustle of New Delhi, I still hear a faint whisper somewhere: “Thank you for loving me.”