Years ago, my first husband Arjun and I had what many would call an ideal marriage. We rarely fought, and though his family wasn’t wealthy, he always gave me the best of himself.

After we got married, Arjun didn’t want me to work—he said he worried it would exhaust me. But I insisted on getting a job. I believed having a career would keep me growing, open my mind, and also ease our financial burden.

Eventually, he agreed—on one condition: if I ever felt too tired, I could quit anytime. He even said that if I wanted to start a business, he’d borrow money to support me. Having a husband like that made me feel incredibly lucky.

We lived peacefully for two years. Then suddenly, he asked for a divorce—with the reason being that I couldn’t conceive.

“We’ve been trying for two years and there’s still no result. Look at me—I’m strong, healthy. Clearly, the issue isn’t with me. But you’ve always been sickly. I want a child of my own, and my parents are anxious to have grandchildren. So please… set me free.”

Each word he spoke pierced my heart.

I asked him to get tested, to see where the problem really lay, and then we could treat it together. But he flatly refused. Instead, he handed me the divorce papers. No matter how hard I tried to reason with him, he was resolute. In the end, I gave up and signed.

After the divorce, his family didn’t speak publicly about my supposed infertility. Thanks to that, I still had a chance to remarry. Let’s be honest—who would want a divorced woman who couldn’t have children?

Then a miracle happened.

After marrying my second husband, I found out I was pregnant—just three months after our wedding. I cried tears of joy. So I wasn’t infertile after all. The problem had never been me.

Throughout my pregnancy, I held onto that bitterness, waiting for the day my child would be born so I could take my baby to Arjun—to show him the truth. I wanted him to see that he had been wrong. I imagined him still childless while I had become a mother. The thought alone made me feel vindicated—as if I had finally claimed justice for myself.

So, after giving birth, I took my newborn son and headed to Arjun’s home.

To my surprise, it was his mother who opened the door.

“Is Arjun at work?” I asked.

She paused, her eyes dim, then softly replied with just three words:

“He’s gone now.”

The words hit me like lightning.

She invited me in and told me everything.

Back then, it wasn’t that I couldn’t have children—Arjun had been diagnosed with cancer. But he didn’t want me to suffer, to be burdened by his illness. So he quietly began using contraceptives to ensure I wouldn’t get pregnant. That’s why I couldn’t conceive.

He had asked his mother never to tell me. He didn’t want me to carry the pain, or blame myself. He wanted me to move on and be happy.

His mother looked at the baby in my arms with eyes full of sorrow and admiration.

“Live well, dear,” she said softly. “It was his fate. Don’t carry guilt in your heart.”

That moment changed everything.

I finally understood. He hadn’t abandoned me—he had loved me more than I ever knew. He sacrificed everything, even his reputation, just so I could have a chance at a better life.

From that day forward, I let go of my resentment.

Instead of anger, I carried gratitude. Instead of pain, I felt peace. Because of Arjun, I learned what deep, wordless love truly meant. Because of him, I learned to treasure every moment of my life.

And perhaps somewhere, in a quiet corner of the universe, he’s still watching over me… just like he always did in the silent shadows of the past.

And me? I will keep living—calmly, fully, gently—for both of us.
So that the love we once shared won’t fade into regret,
But bloom into something eternal.