The day I became his wife, his family was still impoverished. Yet he managed to collect the entire dowry and came to claim me amid the startled and jealous eyes of many girls in the village. I believed I was fortunate to marry such a handsome man, but once we lived together, I accrued that he was also endlessly gentle and considerate. He spoiled me like a little girl, keeping me forever in the bliss of our wedding days.
But every marriage, sooner or later, bears scars. My mother-in-law had four sons; he was the second-born, yet nearly all burdens—carrying loads, fixing the house, taking her to doctors—fell on his shoulders. At first, I admired his devotion, but over time a sorrow grew inside me.
Once I told him,
“Your mother exploits you too much.”
He only smiled.
“It’s just because she relies on me.”
I answered,
“No, it’s because you’re too kind, too easy to command.”
One day, only because I spoke about his mother, he lost his temper and shouted angrily,
“Let’s divorce. Anyone refusing divorce is a coward.”
I was speechless; I had never seen him like that and never imagined he’d truly ask for divorce. Yet a few days later, he returned with a big box of my favorite ice cream, smiled, and said,
“I’m that coward, forgive me.”
Through tears, I laughed.
Years slipped away. His father and elder brother passed away young. His youngest brother got entangled in crime. The family was left depending solely on my husband, who silently carried everything without complaint. My mother-in-law, instead of easing his load, leaned on him even more.
When our daughter entered college, I finally thought we had some time together. But happiness was short: he became ill. Near sixty, he suffered hypertension, diabetes, high cholesterol… until a stroke destr0yed several organs. I stayed by him night and day, bathing, feeding, never letting anyone else touch him. I thought: He cared for me his whole life, now I must return that devotion.
What broke me most was that, during all those months, his mother never visited. She only appeared when he was already fading. With a faint voice, he muttered,
“Mom… I want your cooking.”
She went home, made four dishes, and had my younger brother-in-law deliver them. He could no longer eat; he only signaled with his eyes for me to eat. I understood—it was his final way of “cooking” for me, using her hands. I ate while sobbing.
Then the day came. The hospital ran out of his bl00d type. His younger brother offered, but wasn’t a match.
More tests revealed something devastating: my husband wasn’t his parents’ biological child.
I froze in disbelief. His whole life, he lived serving a mother who never truly loved him. Later, alone, I asked him, and he nodded silently: he had known for years, after overhearing his parents’ conversation. None of his siblings ever knew. His resigned smiles at his mother’s unfairness weren’t from indifference, but from longing—hoping for a little affection he never received.
I recalled then how he often acted childlike with me, seeking comfort. I used to tease,
“You’re grown now, how can you be so sweet? Am I your mother?”
Now I understood: it was how he replaced the motherly love denied him in childhood.
He passed on a rainy afternoon. The room was so still I could hear my heart shatter. Our daughter took me to live with her. One evening, as we strolled by the lake, she quietly said,
“Dad told me: I cared for your mother all my life, now I can’t anymore. So from today, I’ll care for her instead.”
I hugged her, smiling through tears. His love never ended; it just transformed into another form.
Since he left, I’ve learned to live slower. Each morning I still roll toward his side of the bed before realizing that emptiness will never be filled. On his anniversaries, I cook his favorite meals and place them on the altar, as though he’d stepped away only briefly and would soon return.
Our daughter keeps her word: she tends to me at every meal, every night, never leaving me alone. Sometimes, in the early morning stillness, I hear whispers:
“Dad, I’m taking care of Mom for you, don’t worry.”
I clutch the pillow, crying quietly, with grief but also warmth in my heart.
People sometimes ask me if, knowing he wasn’t his mother’s real son, I feel bitterness for him. I only smile. Because he never lived for himself, but only to give. He selected silence, to endure, to uphold duty, to shield his loved ones.
If another life exists, I still wish to find him again. I want him to hold my hand on a windy day, smiling proudly and saying,
“She’s my wife.”
And next time, I will embrace him with all my strength, never letting him slip away again.
