The day I married him, his family was still poor. However, he collected the entire dowry and came looking for me amidst the astonished and envious glances of so many girls in the village.
I thought I was lucky to have married such a handsome man, but after marriage, I discovered that he was also incredibly tender and attentive. I didn’t eat onions or spicy food, and he remembered every detail.
When we went out to eat, I always asked the owner of the establishment not to put onions on my plate, and if they accidentally put them in, he would take care of removing them one by one, just so I could eat in peace. He pampered me like a child, always keeping me in the youthful state of our wedding day.
But every marriage, sooner or later, has scars. My mother-in-law had four sons; he was the second-born, but almost all the household responsibilities—from carrying heavy things, repairing the house, to taking her to the doctor—fell on him. At first, I admired his filiality, but little by little, a feeling of sadness grew within me. Once I said to him,
“Your mother takes too much advantage of you.”
He smiled.
“It’s because she trusts me.
” I replied,
“No, it’s because she sees you as too good and easy to boss around.”
One day, just because I made a comment about his mother, he lost his cool and said angrily,
“Let’s get a divorce. Anyone who doesn’t get a divorce is a coward.”
I was stunned; it was the first time I’d seen him like that, and I never imagined he’d actually ask me for a divorce. But a few days later, he came back with a big carton of ice cream, my favorite, and smiling, he said,
“I’m that coward, forgive me.”
I laughed through my tears.
Years passed. His father and older brother died prematurely. His younger brother had trouble with the law. The family was left with no support except my husband, who shouldered everything without a single complaint. My mother-in-law, instead of relieving him, relied on him even more.
When our daughter entered college, I finally felt we had a little time for ourselves. But the joy didn’t last long: he fell ill. At almost 60, he suffered from hypertension, diabetes, high cholesterol… until a stroke that affected several organs. I stayed by his side day and night, bathing him, feeding him, not letting anyone else touch him. I thought: He took care of me all my life, now it’s my turn to return that love.
What hurt me most was that, during all that time, my mother-in-law never visited him once. She only appeared when he was already dying. In a weak voice, he said to her,
“Mom… I want to eat your food.”
She came home, cooked four dishes, and sent my younger brother-in-law to bring them. My husband couldn’t eat anymore; he just signaled with his eyes that I should eat. I understood that this was his last way of “cooking” for me, using his mother’s hands. I ate while crying.
The fateful day arrived. The hospital’s blood bank ran out of his blood type. His younger brother offered to donate, but he wasn’t a match. The doctors ran more tests, and the result was grim: my husband wasn’t his parents’ biological son.
I was in shock. His whole life, he’d lived to please a mother who had never truly loved him. Later, in private, I asked him, and he nodded silently: he’d known for years, after accidentally overhearing a conversation between his parents. None of his siblings knew. Their resigned smiles in the face of their mother’s excesses weren’t because it didn’t hurt, but because he still longed for a bit of recognition and affection he never received.
I remembered then how he sometimes behaved like a little boy with me, seeking affection. I used to joke:
“You’re all grown up now, how can you be so sweet? Am I even your mother?”
I understood now: it was his way of making up for the maternal love he lacked in his childhood.
He left one rainy afternoon. The room was so quiet I clearly heard my heart breaking. Our daughter took me to live with her. One afternoon, as we were walking by the lake, she suddenly said,
“Dad told me: I took care of your mother all my life, now I can’t take it anymore. So from today on, I’ll take care of her instead.”
I hugged her and smiled through my tears. His love never left me; it just continued in another form.
Since the day he left, I’ve learned to live more slowly. Every morning I still unconsciously roll over to the side of the bed where he used to lie, and then I remember that that emptiness can never be filled. On his anniversaries, I make his favorite dishes and place them on the altar, as if he’d stepped away for a moment and was about to return.
Our daughter keeps her promise: she takes care of me at every meal, every night, she never leaves me alone. Often, in the stillness of the early morning, I hear whispers:
“Dad, I’m taking care of Mom for you, don’t worry.”
I hug the pillow, crying silently, with pain but also with warmth in my soul.
Some people ask me if, knowing that he wasn’t his mother’s biological son, I don’t think it’s unfair to him. I just smile. Because I know he never lived for himself, but always to give. He chose to remain silent, to endure, to uphold his filial duty, to protect those he loved.
Today, looking back, I understand that love isn’t just sweet words, but a lifetime of silent sacrifice. He used his tenderness to fill gaps, his care to heal wounds. That afternoon by the lake, when I heard my daughter say, “I’m going to take care of Mom instead of Dad,” I realized his love had never disappeared. It was simply transmitted, like a warm flame, from him to our daughter, and from our daughter to me.
If there’s an afterlife, I still want to find him again. I want him to hold my hand on a windy afternoon, smiling proudly and saying,
“She’s my wife.”
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