“We’re divorced,” she whispered. “I didn’t want to burden you.”
We talked until evening—our first real conversation in months. Before I left, I said:
“Let me stay by your side. Even if we’re no longer married.”
She gave a sad smile. “Do you pity me now?”
“No,” I said. “I still love you.”
For the next weeks, I visited her every day. I brought food, accompanied her to tests, sat through her nausea. I didn’t know whether it was love or regret—but I couldn’t leave her again.
Then one afternoon, she quietly revealed:
“I knew I was sick even before we divorced.”
I felt the world tilt.
“A week before you asked for the divorce,” she said, “I fainted at work. They found a tumor. I got the results the same day we had our fight.”
I could barely breathe.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because I knew… you would stay out of responsibility. Not love. And I couldn’t bear that.”
Later that night, I found a letter in her bag: