“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:

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.

Sometimes, when I walk past the hospital corridor where I first saw her sitting alone, I still hear her soft whisper:

“Thank you for loving me.”