Evan,
I had another pregnancy—just a few weeks. I didn’t tell you because I was scared. And then… I lost it again.
The doctors said it was because of the tumor.
I asked for the divorce because I wanted you to remember me as your Lena, not a dying woman tied to hospital machines.
But I still love you. I always will.
I cried until the paper was damp.
A week later, the doctor called me aside.
“Her tumor isn’t responding well. We’ll try other treatments, but… the outcome doesn’t look promising.”
That night, I held her fragile hand and whispered:
“If you’ll let me… I want to marry you again. No ceremony. No rings. I just want to wake up beside you while I still can.”
Tears slid down her pale cheeks.
“Yes… I want that too.”
We married quietly in her hospital room. A nurse tied a small red thread around her wrist. Someone brought a few carnations. Machines beeped softly as we exchanged whispered promises.
Three months later, Lena died in my arms.
In that short time, we lived like husband and wife again—fully, honestly, painfully.
I still carry her letter. And our wedding photo. My two treasures.