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.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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