I realised it all too late: only when my husband fell gravely ill did I understand how deeply I loved him.
When I married Edward, I was but twenty-five. Fresh from university, the world lay open before me, and I was certain of myself—proud of my wit and looks, convinced I could have any man I desired. They flocked to me like moths to a flame, and I revelled in their attention. I was admired, wanted, flattered.
Edward was one of them. Awkward, shy, yet endlessly kind, attentive, with eyes full of devotion. He followed me devotedly, indulged my whims, endured even my sharpest words. I remember one evening at supper with friends—I’d had one too many glasses of wine, and when he offered to take me home, I did not refuse. That night, I was restless, irritable, yet he soothed me. Back then, I thought it would be just once.
But fate had other plans. A month later, I discovered I was with child. When Edward learned of it, he was radiant with joy. He proposed at once, and I—well, I agreed. Though in truth, I had imagined a different sort of man beside me: bold, brilliant, commanding. Edward was too gentle, too accommodating. Still, I told myself: if this was life’s design, then so be it.
We wed, I moved into his home, and soon our son was born. Edward carried me as though I were made of glass—he wouldn’t let me lift so much as a kettle, spoiled me with gifts, cooked, cleaned, cared for the babe. I felt safe, wrapped in warmth like a cosy cage—yet something in me still longed for more.
Before our son turned one, I was expecting again. At first, I panicked, even considered ending it, but my mother persuaded me: «Have the child. Let them grow together. Hard now, easier later.» I listened. The second pregnancy passed quietly, Edward as tender as ever. He never raised his voice, never forbade me from seeing friends, never questioned or reproached me. He was simply there—always.
Yet in my heart, I craved passion—the kind sung of in ballads, written in poetry. I could not help myself; more than once, I strayed. Brief, fleeting affairs with men who sparked fire but offered no warmth. I always returned home. Because only with Edward did I feel truly safe. He knew, I think. Likely he always knew. But he never spoke a word. He simply… loved me.
Years passed. The children grew. We lived as countless families do, and I seldom paused to reflect. I told myself I had made a fair trade: yes, I might have had a man more dazzling, more ambitious—but I had chosen steadiness. Peace. A family.
Then Edward fell ill.
At first, it seemed nothing—a chill, a weariness. We paid it little mind. But within weeks, his strength faded swiftly. Tests, examinations, physicians. And then the blow: cancer.
The world collapsed.
I do not recall standing in that hospital room, hearing the doctor’s words, or walking home as though the ground had vanished beneath me. Only in that moment did I grasp how precious he was to me. How fiercely I loved him. How unbearable the thought of losing him. How impossible life would be without him.
From then on, I never left his side. Hospitals, treatments, endless waiting. I held his hand when pain wracked him, wiped his brow when fever burned, stroked his back when sleep eluded him. And inside, I screamed: «Please, let him live!»
I begged God, fate, the universe—anyone who would listen. Just let him stay. I swore to myself I would never betray him again, never so much as glance at another man. For now I knew: Edward was my love. True. Deep. Quiet, yet unshakable.
The doctors gave us hope. They said there was a chance. And so we fight. Every day. I am here. I am strong. I am his wife—truly.
I do not know what comes next. But I know this: I will walk whatever path lies ahead with him. To the very end. And if one day I must close his eyes, I shall do so with love. But I believe—oh, I believe—it will not come to that. I believe he will recover. That we will grow old together. That we will see our children wed, our grandchildren playing at our feet. That one day, when time has lined our faces and silvered our hair, he will take my hand and whisper: «Thank you for staying.»
I pray for it daily. For him. For us. For a little more time with the man I love—too late, perhaps, but with all my heart.