I Visited My Ex-Husband in the Hospital, Never Expecting That What He Gave Me Would Make Me Want to Burst Into Tears on the Spot…

I hadn’t planned to visit him—truly, I hadn’t. But when I saw his name on the hospital’s patient list, my heart skipped wildly. Even though we had been divorced for three years, when the doctor mentioned he was in the oncology ward, my hands started to tremble uncontrollably. And so… I stepped into that room.

He looked at me and gave a faint smile. After a few words of small talk, he pulled something out from the bedside drawer that left me frozen, my tears ready to fall.

Hanoi, March. The weather hadn’t yet warmed after the lingering chill of “nàng Bân’s” cold spell. I am Thu Trang, 34 years old, an elementary school teacher. Life after my divorce from Minh—my ex-husband—had flowed quietly, like a lake with no ripples. We parted in silence, without arguments, without hatred, just… no longer sharing common ground. At least, that’s what I had always thought.

That day, I accompanied a student who had a minor traffic accident to the Việt–Pháp Hospital. While waiting for the doctor to process paperwork, I absentmindedly glanced at the board listing long-term patients. The name “Nguyễn Văn Minh – Oncology Department – Room 304” struck me like a cold slap across the face. I had to look three times—still the same name, the same year of birth.

My heart pounded furiously. Something urged me toward the third floor. Room 304 was at the end of the hallway, its door half-closed. I hesitated, drew a deep breath, and knocked.

“Come in.” His voice was the same—deep and gentle, though slower than before. I stepped inside, my emotions in turmoil. Minh was propped up against a pillow, his face pale, but his smile as tender as ever.

“Trang?”

I nodded, unsure what to say. For a few seconds, we simply looked at each other. I never imagined I would meet him again here, in such circumstances.

“Why… why are you here?” I asked, my voice hoarse.

“Diagnosed six months ago. Stage three liver cancer,” he said lightly, as if it were nothing more than a cold. But my eyes were already burning hot.

“Do you live alone?” I asked, glancing around. There were no signs of anyone taking care of him regularly.

“Yes. No one. My mother passed away last year, and my father… well, you know already.”

I bit my lip. Memories of my gentle mother-in-law came flooding back. She had loved me like her own daughter, to the point that even after Minh and I divorced, she still called me every month to check on me.

We sat and talked for more than half an hour. I shared stories about school, my students, and my daily life. Minh talked about his treatment, the medicines, and little things about his ward neighbors. When I finally stood up to leave, he suddenly called me back:

“Trang… wait a moment.”

He reached into the bedside drawer and pulled out a worn envelope, its edges frayed. He handed it to me.

“What is this?”

“Take it home and read it. But only after you’ve gone back.”

I didn’t understand, but the look in his eyes left me no room to refuse. I nodded, said goodbye, and left—without daring to look back.

Back home, after making myself a cup of hot tea to steady my nerves, I opened the envelope. Inside was… a stack of handwritten letters. Minh’s handwriting—I recognized it at once from the very first lines. The first letter was dated three years ago, the exact day we officially divorced.

“To Trang,
I know that the moment you signed the divorce papers, you thought everything between us had ended. But there are things I never told you—not because I didn’t want to, but because at that time, I didn’t have the courage…”

I kept reading, each line cutting into my heart like a blade. He wrote about the emptiness he felt when I moved out. He said he still loved me, but because of pride, because of stubbornness, he couldn’t bring himself to hold me back. He wrote that every Lunar New Year, he still cooked cá lóc sour soup—my favorite dish—and ate it alone.

“…If one day you’re reading these lines, it probably means I don’t have much time left. But I don’t want to leave without once saying this: I never stopped loving you. Even as your ex-husband, to me, you will always be the woman I love most in this life…”

I broke down in tears. I couldn’t hold it in anymore.

I couldn’t sleep the entire night.

Every line in Minh’s letters still echoed in my mind. I clutched the stack of letters to my chest—my tears had dried, but my heart was tangled like a knotted thread. We had once loved each other so deeply, walking together through our difficult student years, through the early days of our careers when every coin we saved went toward paying off that tiny apartment in Cầu Giấy. And yet, we let go of each other—not because of betrayal or pain, but simply because… we no longer knew how to talk like we used to.

I had always believed our love had faded. But what Minh wrote, every trembling stroke of his pen, every line heavy with tenderness and longing, made it impossible for me to keep lying to myself about what I still felt inside.

The next morning, I requested leave from teaching, bought some porridge and fruit, and went back to the hospital. The room was the same—the smell of disinfectant, the chill of the air conditioning lingering in the air. Minh was dozing off, his complexion even paler than the day before.

I sat down on the chair beside his bed, quietly watching him. This man who had once been so strong, once my steadfast support for so many years, now lay there fragile as a fallen leaf at the end of autumn.

After a while, he stirred awake, surprised to see me there again.

“You’re not angry?” he asked, his voice hoarse.

“Angry about what?”

“About the things I hid from you… the things I wrote in those letters.”

I shook my head. I didn’t know if it was out of pity or because my feelings had never truly faded, but in that moment, I realized I couldn’t blame him. We were both victims of silence in our marriage—like two people walking side by side for so long, never turning to look at each other.

“I still kept all of our wedding photos… and even our rings,” he said as he pulled a small wooden box from the drawer. Inside were two old wedding bands, their engravings faded. One read, “Minh loves Trang,” and the other, “Trang forever with Minh.”

I burst into tears.

“I never took mine off… until the day you signed the divorce papers,” he said, staring blankly into the distance. “When the doctors told me I only had a few months left without a liver transplant, I didn’t know who else to tell… You were the first person who came to mind.”

I held his hand. For the first time in three years, we touched as if we had never let go.

“Minh, if I can… I want to be with you during these last months,” I said, my heart tightening. “Whether as your ex-wife or just a friend—it doesn’t matter anymore.”

He squeezed my hand gently, his eyes glistening with tears.

In the days that followed, I became Minh’s only companion in the hospital. I asked to switch my teaching schedule to afternoons so I could spend mornings caring for him—feeding him, talking to him, and reminiscing about our old memories.

We laughed more often, even though deep down, we both knew: our days together were numbered.

Then one afternoon, the doctor called me into his office.

“Minh’s condition has worsened. We’ve tried to maintain him with chemotherapy, but his liver is now severely damaged. There’s only one option left—a liver transplant.”

I froze.

“But finding a suitable donor is very difficult… If any family member is willing to donate, we can run tests immediately.”

I didn’t hesitate. I took the test. The results showed that I was a compatible match for him.

When I told Minh the news, he immediately refused.

“No! You can’t do this. You still have a future. You can remarry, have children…”

“Minh, if you’re gone, then I have nothing left to lose either.” I smiled through my tears. “Maybe I’m your ex-wife, but my heart never stopped loving you.”

He said nothing—just pulled me into his arms and held me tight. For the first time in three years.

The surgery was performed two weeks later. A part of my liver was donated to him. It was a gamble—between life, death, and love.

Minh recovered slowly but steadily. A month after the operation, he was able to sit up and start walking again. Every time I saw him take a few steps, I would quietly cry behind the hospital room door.

One afternoon at the end of June, he knelt down in front of me—right there in the very room that had once been so heavy with despair.

“I know I can’t bring back the three years we lost. But if you’ll let me… I want to spend the rest of my life with you.”

I nodded. No rings, no wedding banquet—just a promise: “This time, we will never let silence kill our love again.”