He Doesn’t Know I’m Dying

"Without a marrow transplant, you only have a few months left. Prepare yourself," the doctor said, his face etched with gravity as he looked at me. I clutched the diagnosis and lab reports tightly, tears welled up, threatening to overflow. Lately, I've lost so much weight that my clothes hang off me, and I get nosebleeds just by lowering my head. I don't even know how I managed to leave the consultation room. The hospital was bustling, yet my lonely countdown to the end of my days felt tragically pitiful. Even in the crowd, I could instantly pick out his figure. Andrew, my husband of two years, stood there holding a payment slip, his eyes tenderly fixed on another woman by his side, a gentle concern etched on his face. I knew her; she was his ex-girlfriend, Donie. Her face was pale—she must be ill. I stopped in my tracks, watching him protectively guide her away from the crowd towards the infusion area. She's just ill, but I'm dying. Once home, I collapsed into bed, exhausted. I slept fitfully for a long time before feeling the mattress dip beside me. It was past midnight when Andrew returned. Fresh from a shower, he carried the familiar scent of soap and steam. I snapped my eyes open, instantly wide awake. His warm body settled beside me, enveloping me, yet I had never felt so distant from him. In the darkness, he wrapped his arms around me, nuzzling my nose. "Darling, I missed you." "Why are you home so late?" "Had to entertain a big client," he replied. I recalled those early days when a young and stubborn Andrew had shouted at me, "Compared to her, what are you? You're not even fit to hold a candle to her!" I gently pushed him away, my nose tingling with emotion. "I can't sleep. Tell me a joke, will you?" He paused, genuinely thinking for a moment, before starting one of those silly, cold puns I loved. He always found them online, just to humor me. "A hunter shot a fox, and the hunter died. Do you know why?" I shook my head. "Because the fox was too quick on the draw." Facing away from him, my shoulders shook with laughter, though my heart was breaking. Suddenly, his phone buzzed. He relaxed, seemingly replying to someone else's message. I couldn't stop laughing, though my heart was breaking. He sighed, exasperated, "You'll never grow up. What's so funny about that?" Luckily, the lights were off, or he would have seen that I wasn't laughing—I was crying. The doctor said my days were numbered and promised to search for a marrow donor. I refused hospitalization, choosing to stay home. Andrew hadn't noticed these changes in me. He spent little time at home and rarely joined me for meals. As he left that morning, he promised, "I'll be home for dinner tonight." I nodded, trying to maintain a semblance of calm. "Okay. What do you want to eat? I'll make it for you." "Braised fish," he said. I went to the supermarket, bought the ingredients, and prepared the braised fish before he was due home. But once again, I waited until midnight, and Andrew still hadn't returned. This time, he didn't come home at all. He finally showed up the next evening, looking both weary and inexplicably cheerful, carrying a takeout box of braised fish, as if to make amends. "Honey, it's my fault. I had to work late again yesterday. Let's have a fresh start with dinner tonight." I didn't mention the long, blonde hair on the collar of his suit or question the unfamiliar scent of women's perfume clinging to him. All I knew was that in the dwindling days of my life, he was absent once more. I didn't touch the roast fish he brought back. By the time Andrew finished his shower, I was already sitting by the bed, applying my skincare. He stepped out with steam still clinging to him, handing me a towel to dry his hair. I playfully tousled his hair, feeling its softness and the subtle scent of his body wash wafting from his neck. Once I was done, he turned, his deep, starry eyes locked onto mine, wanting to pull me into bed. "Darling, how long has it been?" How long? Probably since we lost the baby. He wrapped me in his strong arms, kissing my cheek. "Are you still upset about losing the baby?" "Why would I be?" I replied, forcing a smile. "You didn't eat the roast fish I got for you. Are you mad at me?" He turned my face toward him, covering me with kisses that once made me blissfully happy but now made me feel nauseous. He had a face that my younger self had fallen for at first sight, a quiet love I had kept hidden for four years. He gently caressed the hair by my ear, whispering softly as he held me, lulling me into a drowsy haze. "I saw you at the hospital," I suddenly said. "What?" he asked, clearly taken aback. "I saw you with Donie at the hospital." "Why are you telling me now? It's not what you think," he said, agitation transforming him into someone unrecognizable. I knew the moment those words left my mouth, the fragile peace of our marriage was shattered. His first reaction wasn't even to ask why I was at the hospital. "Even now," I said with a bitter smile, "am I still not good enough to hold a candle to her?" Andrew's company was something I had helped build. When he was struggling the most, I sacrificed my dignity, entertaining his clients, often drinking until I was sick. Thinking back, my leukemia might have been influenced by more than just genetics, perhaps by the chaos of those times. I ran around tirelessly, securing scarce investments for him, allowing his business to thrive. Later, to prepare for pregnancy, I stepped back to focus on home, and he hired a new assistant. I saw her when I went to his office to deliver something. She was leaning over Andrew's desk, whispering, her blouse subtly brushing against his arm. I was so furious I let out a laugh, raised my hand, and slammed the bag onto the desk, making them both jump. "What, the boss's wife shows up and you don't even say hello?" The assistant jumped back, her fingers nervously fidgeting with the hem of her skirt. Andrew frowned, defending her, "Phoua, don't be so aggressive. She's young and new, doesn't know the ropes yet." That might be true, but why did I have to entertain clients for you when I was young and naive? And back then, I didn't even know I was pregnant. I also didn't know that this assistant was his ex-girlfriend, Donie. There was a time when Andrew was good to me, so good that I thought my dream of being loved by him might actually come true. Years ago, he had a car accident because of Donie. She had broken up with him decisively, leaving him no room to reconcile, and boarded a plane abroad. Back then, Andrew was just a poor kid, fresh out of college. Donie's family was well-off, and she had an undeniable presence. People said he was reaching above his station.Andrew drove like a man possessed, chasing after her flight, but a cruel twist of fate intervened. A car accident left him with a severely fractured leg and other injuries, barely escaping death's grip. That's when I found him. I wanted him to know that I'd loved him for four years, and even if he had nothing, I was willing to give him everything. I visited him every day, caring for him until he was discharged. Only I knew the effort it took, from enduring his angry grip on my throat to the moment he proposed. When Andrew first awoke from his coma, he was bewildered by the sight of his body, immobilized and cast-bound. The first time he saw me at his bedside, he didn't recognize me as the girl who had poured her heart out to him in a love letter back in college. "Who are you? Has Donie left?" Those were his first words to me. His eyes were bloodshot, brimming with tears, as he desperately clung to every visitor, pleading for news of Donie. Disregarding his injured leg and the IV in his arm, he tried to get out of bed, only to finally accept that Donie was gone. When I tried to help him, he suddenly grabbed my throat, like a wild beast poised to tear me apart. I almost thought I was going to suffocate, but then he released me, and I clutched my throat, tears streaming as I coughed. "Get out." I left the room. The second time I saw him, he hobbled out of bed to throw the flowers I brought out the window. But I didn't leave. I stayed by his side, bought him nutritious food, peeled fruits for him every day, and pushed his wheelchair for walks outside. His emotions gradually calmed. He stopped yelling at me and treated me with a resigned acceptance, though he still gazed into the sky, lost in thought. As he recovered, his attitude softened. He stopped shying away from my gentle gestures, sometimes holding my hand or teasingly lifting his uninjured hand for me to feed him. One day, as I fetched a nurse to change his dressing, his deep eyes locked onto mine, seemingly oblivious to the pain. "Why are you doing this for me?" "I told you, I like you," I replied, unwavering. His expression softened, a blend of pity and a shared sense of our mutual struggles flickering in his eyes. Perhaps my sincerity touched him. He began to accept my presence, allowing me to care for him, even letting me feed him the apples I peeled. As he regained his strength, he held me close on the bed, his demeanor surprisingly tender. "If I said I was willing to love you, would you keep doing this for me?" Not long after his discharge, he proposed to me. My mother, lacking strong opinions of her own, agreed as long as I was happy. My father had passed away from leukemia when I was in middle school. The wedding was arranged swiftly, and before I knew it, I was swept down the aisle. He played the perfect husband, remembering my likes and surprising me with thoughtful gifts. I poured my heart into helping his company through tough times, which seemed to deepen his affection for me. We were planning to have a child. Later, when Donie's father went bankrupt, she returned home after graduation with no experience. By then, Andrew's company was thriving, so he hired her as his assistant. When I was three months pregnant, Andrew went on a business trip, saying he needed me to meet an important client in his place. I arrived only to find out the client had changed plans, proposing we take our business discussion to a ski resort. He initially wanted me to drink, but I declined due to my pregnancy. He then invited me to ski, reassuring me that I could glide safely on the gentle slopes.Little did I know that this skiing trip would lead to me losing my balance, tumbling down, and ultimately suffering a miscarriage. Rushed to the hospital, I clung to consciousness with just one thought as I watched the blood spill. This was my child with Andrew. I couldn't lose him. But in that critical moment, where was Andrew? Even when I was wheeled out of the operating room, Andrew was nowhere to be found. When I asked his employees, they hesitated, only saying he had gone out with assistant Anna. "Assistant Anna?" I asked, my voice rising as the anesthesia wore off. "What's her real name?" "Donie," someone replied hesitantly. I felt my strength drain away, as if I were the punchline of a cruel joke. The person I thought about day and night, who showered me with affection, suddenly seemed like a stranger. "Do you have her social media? Let me see," I asked weakly after a long pause. I took the phone and looked at her newly posted, joy-filled update. They were basking in the sun on an island. There was Donie, flaunting her figure in a bikini, and though the man lounging behind her was hard to make out, I instantly recognized Andrew by his sunglasses. Between them on the table was a coconut with two straws. The post had been made two hours earlier. The caption read: "Was supposed to be with a client, but the boss let me skip out." Someone had commented below, and Andrew replied: "Then and now, as long as she's willing to come back." Suddenly, it didn't matter if Andrew knew about my miscarriage and hospitalization. Six or seven years of feelings now felt utterly worthless. Everything made me want to laugh at my own past foolishness and reckless heart.