After 2 months of divorce, I was shocked to see my wife wandering around the hospital…and the truth made me collapse..

I didn’t think I would see her there — among dozens of people wearing pale hospital gowns, with haggard faces and dazed eyes, she sat quietly in the corner of the hallway as if the whole world had abandoned her. And in that moment, my heart felt like someone was squeezing it. She — my ex-wife whom I had just divorced two months ago.

My name is Miguel, 34 years old, an ordinary office worker in Manila with a seemingly stable marriage that lasted 5 years. My wife — Maya — is a gentle, kind woman, not too outstanding but makes me feel at peace every time I come home.

We used to have the same dream as any other couple: buy a house, have children, build a small family. But three years after getting married, after Maya had two miscarriages, the atmosphere in the apartment began to change. Maya spoke less, her eyes often looking into the distance. I began to feel tired because of the days when I came home from work and only saw sighs and cold faces.

I did not deny that I was at fault. I started coming home later, avoiding communication with my wife, using work as an excuse to avoid facing the emptiness between us. Gradually, small arguments became more frequent, even though neither of us really wanted to hurt the other.

One day in April, after a small but tiring argument, I quietly said:

— Let’s get a divorce, Maya.

She looked at me for a long time, then said only one sentence:

— You’ve decided, right?

I nodded. She did not cry or scream like I had imagined. She just nodded silently and packed her clothes that night. The divorce papers were signed quickly as if both of us had mentally prepared for a long time.

After the divorce, I moved back to my rented apartment in Quezon City, living a simple life: going to work in the morning, going out drinking at night or coming home to turn on a movie. There was no one to cook, no more sound of slippers clicking every morning, no more familiar voice asking: “Have you eaten yet?” But I did not allow myself to be weak. I believed that I was right — at least at that time.

Two months passed. I lived like a shadow. There were nights when I woke up in the middle of a nightmare, finding myself calling Maya’s name in my dreams.

That day, I went to the Philippine General Hospital (PGH) in Manila to visit a close friend who had just finished surgery. As I passed the hallway of the Internal Medicine department, I turned my head unconsciously because I felt someone familiar. And then I saw Maya.

She sat there, wearing a pale blue hospital gown, her hair cut strangely short — she used to cherish her long hair. Her face was pale, thin, and her eyes were empty, as if lifeless. Next to her was an IV drip.

I stood there, stunned. My heart was pounding. So many questions were racing through my head: What was wrong with her? Why didn’t anyone tell me? Why was she sitting there alone?

I walked over and said, trembling:…

— Maya?

She looked up. Her blank eyes flashed with surprise.

— You… Miguel?

— What are you doing here? What’s wrong with you?

She turned away, avoiding my gaze. Her voice was as small as the wind:

— Nothing… just a health check.

I sat down next to her, holding her hand. It was cold.

— You don’t need to hide it from me. Looking at me like this… how can I believe it?

A moment later, she spoke slowly:

— I… just found out I have early stage ovarian cancer. The doctor said it’s curable if I follow the protocol. But I don’t have insurance, no one is by my side, and… I don’t have much money left after moving out.

I was stunned. Her words were like knives cutting straight into my heart. For the past two months, I have lived with a false sense of serenity, while she — who used to be my wife, who used to lie in my arms every night — has been carrying an indescribable pain all by herself.

— Why didn’t you tell me? — I choked up.

— We’re divorced. I don’t want to be a burden to you anymore. I… thought I could handle it myself.

I didn’t know what to say. Guilt surrounded me like a tidal wave.

That day, I sat with her until evening. For the first time in months, we talked like family — no more blame, no more pride.

Before leaving, I said:

— Maya, let me stay by your side. Even though we’re no longer husband and wife, I can’t leave you like this.

She just smiled sadly:

— Are you pitying me?

— No. I… really love you.

I returned to the hospital the next morning, carrying white rice porridge (lugaw) and a bag of oranges. Maya was surprised to see me, but said nothing. Perhaps she thought I would come, but she wasn’t sure.

Over the next few days, I almost quit my job to be with her. I took her for tests, waited for each prescription, and even copied down every dietary instruction the doctor gave me. I’m not sure what made me do it – to atone, to regret, or simply because… I still loved her.

One afternoon, while I was making her bed, Maya suddenly spoke up:

— Did you know… I knew I was sick before the divorce?

I was stunned.

— What?

— A week before you asked for a divorce, I went to the doctor because of persistent abdominal pain. The biopsy results came back the day we had a fight.

I turned to look at her, feeling as if someone had just punched my heart.

— Why didn’t you say anything?

— I know… if I tell you, you will stay because of responsibility, not because you still love me. I don’t want that. I want you to be free… at least one person who isn’t bound by pain.

I jumped up, unable to hold back my tears.

— Do you think I’m that kind of person? Do you think I’m not in pain?

Maya looked at me for a long time. She smiled, the most peaceful smile I’ve ever seen.

— It’s not that I don’t believe you. But I don’t want you to live your whole life with a sick person, and pretend to be happy every day. I can’t stand that.

I couldn’t answer. Because she was partly right. At that time, I really wanted to let go. I used to think she was a burden — not knowing that I was the one who left that woman behind in the cruel world.

About a week later, Maya was transferred to the regular treatment department, starting chemotherapy. I moved to stay at the hospital to take care of her. For the first time in years, I learned to really listen: when she was in pain, when she threw up from the medicine, when she laughed at a trivial story.

One night, as she slept, I was sorting through her bag and found a small envelope with a note on it: “If Miguel ever reads this, I’m sorry.”

I was confused. After a few seconds of hesitation, I opened the letter.

Miguel,
If you read this letter, I probably won’t have the strength to speak anymore. I know you’re angry with me for being cold and silent. But I just don’t want to make you tired. You don’t deserve to be dragged into this helplessness.
I got pregnant again. For a very short time. I didn’t dare to say anything because I was afraid I would lose it like the previous times. And then it was true… I lost the baby after only 6 weeks. The doctor said it was due to a weak constitution and… the tumor that developed after that time.
I chose to divorce to keep your beautiful memories, not the image of a skinny wife, full of IVs and the smell of antiseptic. But I still love you, very much. It’s just that… I keep that love for myself.

If I could go back, I would still choose to let go. Because I know… you need to live a different life.

But thank you, for loving me.
— Maya

I held the letter, trembling like someone who had just lost the world. The things she hid from me — another miscarriage, then the discovery of the disease, then the decision to leave — were all to keep me from being hurt. But that hurt me a hundred times more.

The doctor called me into his private room a week later.

— Maya’s condition was getting worse. The tumor was not responding well to chemotherapy. We would try a stronger option, but the chance of recovery was low.

I felt like all my strength had been drained. For the first time in my life, I was so afraid of losing someone.

That night, I held her hand in the hospital room. She was weak, and no longer had much strength to speak. I sat close to her, whispering:

— If possible, I want… we can get married again. I don’t care about the paperwork. I just want to see you every morning, hold your hand every night like this. We don’t need to start over, just be together as long as you want.

Maya smiled weakly, touching my cheek. Tears flowed down her face, but she still smiled.

— I… agree.

Three months later, Maya passed away in my arms. We lived again as husband and wife during that short time. I still keep the old wedding photo and the letter she left behind, as two sacred proofs of the woman who had silently loved me so much — to the point of sacrificing her pain, her life.

I no longer cry every night like the first days. But every time I walk through the old PGH hallway, I remember that bewildered look in her eyes that day — the look that changed the rest of my life.