Two Months After the Divorce, I Was Stunned to See My Ex-Wife Wandering Alone in the Hospital. And When I Learned the Truth… I Broke Down.
I never imagined I would see her there—wearing a pale hospital gown, sitting quietly in a corner of a long corridor among dozens of exhausted faces and empty eyes, as if the whole world had abandoned her.
And in that moment, it felt as though something had crushed her heart—and mine along with it.
She—my ex-wife, Lina—the woman I had divorced just two months earlier.
My name is Miguel, 34, an ordinary office worker in Quezon City. We had been married for five years—on the surface, everything seemed stable.
Lina—gentle, kind, not exceptionally beautiful, but every time I came home, she brought a sense of peace with her.
Like any couple, we had dreams: to buy a small home, raise children, build a simple family.
But three years into our marriage, after Lina suffered two miscarriages, things began to change. She grew quiet and withdrawn, her eyes often drifting somewhere far away. I became exhausted—coming home from work only to find silence, sighs, and distant looks.
I won’t deny my part in it.
I started coming home late, avoiding conversations, using work as an excuse to escape the growing emptiness between us. Small arguments became routine. Neither of us wanted to hurt the other… yet we both did.
One day in April, after a small but draining argument, I said softly:
“Lina… let’s get a divorce.”
She looked at me for a long time, then asked just one thing:
“You’ve already made up your mind, haven’t you?”
I nodded.
She didn’t cry. She didn’t scream.
She simply nodded, packed her things that very night, and walked out. The papers were signed quickly, as if we had both been preparing for it in our hearts for months.
After the divorce, I moved into a small rented unit in Mandaluyong and lived an ordinary life: work during the day, drinks or a movie at night.
No one cooked for me. No familiar sound of slippers in the morning. No soft voice asking, “Kumain ka na ba?”
I refused to feel weak. I kept telling myself I had made the right decision—at least, that’s what I believed then.
Two months passed.
I lived like a shadow.
Some nights I woke from nightmares, calling Lina’s name.
That day, I went to Philippine General Hospital (PGH) to visit my best friend Paolo after his surgery. While walking through the Internal Medicine corridor, I suddenly felt a strange pull, as if someone familiar were nearby.
And then I saw her.
She was sitting there, wearing a pale blue hospital gown. Her hair was unusually short—she had always loved her long hair.
Her face was thin and pale; her eyes looked hollow, lifeless. An IV line hung beside her.
My heart stopped.
Questions rushed through my mind: What happened to her? Why didn’t anyone tell me? Why was she alone?
I walked toward her with trembling steps.
“Lina?”
She looked up, her empty eyes flickering with surprise.
“You… Miguel?”
“What are you doing here? What happened to you?”
She avoided my gaze, turned away, and whispered:
“Nothing… just a routine check-up.”
I sat beside her and held her cold hand.
“Lina, you don’t have to hide anything from me. Not when I see you like this.”
A long silence passed. Then she finally said softly:
“I… I just found out I have early-stage ovarian cancer. The doctors say it’s treatable… if I follow everything. But I don’t have insurance. I’m alone. And after leaving home, I barely have anything left.”
I froze.
Her words cut me like a knife.
While I had been living in false peace, she—my wife once, the woman who had slept beside me for years—had been suffering in silence.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” My voice shook.
“We were already divorced. I didn’t want to burden you. I thought I could handle it alone.”
I had no words.
Guilt crushed me.
We sat there until evening.
For the first time in months, we talked like family—no blame, no pride.
Before leaving, I said:
“Lina, let me stay with you. Even if we’re not husband and wife anymore, I can’t leave you like this.”
She gave a sad smile.
“Do you pity me now?”
“No,” I whispered. “I… I still love you.”
The next morning, I brought her warm arroz caldo and some oranges. She looked surprised but said nothing. Maybe she had expected me. Maybe not.
Over the next days, I spent almost all my time by her side.
I went with her to tests, waited through treatments, followed every dietary instruction.
I didn’t know why—regret, penance, or simply because I still loved her.
One afternoon, while I was adjusting her bedsheets, Lina suddenly said:
“Do you know… I found out I was sick even before the divorce?”
I froze.
“What?”
“A week before you asked for the divorce, I had terrible abdominal pain. I went for tests.
The results came the same day we had that fight.”
I stared at her, stunned—like being punched in the chest.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because I knew… if I told you, you would stay out of responsibility, not love.
I didn’t want that.
I wanted you to be free… at least free from my suffering.”
Tears rolled down my face.
“Do you think I’m that kind of person? That I feel nothing?”
She looked at me gently and smiled—a calm, heartbreaking smile.
“It’s not that I didn’t trust you.
I just couldn’t bear the thought of you pretending to be happy while being tied to a sick woman.”
I couldn’t answer.
Because in some ways, she was right.
Back then, I truly believed leaving was best. I had left her to face the world alone.
A week later, her chemotherapy began.
I borrowed a folding bed and stayed in the hospital.
For the first time in years, I learned how to truly listen—to her pain, her nausea, her small moments of laughter.
One night, while she slept, I found a small envelope in her bag labeled: “If Miguel ever reads this, forgive me.”
I hesitated… then opened it.
Miguel,
If you’re reading this, I probably won’t have the strength to speak.
I know you hated my silence. I never wanted to burden you. You didn’t deserve to be dragged into my helplessness.
I became pregnant again. Only for a short time.
I didn’t tell you because I was afraid—afraid of failing again, of losing control.
And then it happened… I lost the baby at six weeks.
The doctors said it was because of my weakness and… the tumor.
I asked for a divorce so you could remember me as your Lina, not as a weak woman surrounded by IV bags and antiseptic smells.
But I still love you. That love… I kept with me.
Even if I could go back, I would still let you go—because you deserve a different life.
Thank you for loving me.
—Lina
I clutched the letter to my chest, shaking.
Everything she had hidden—another miscarriage, her illness, her decision—had all been to protect me.
Yet it shattered me more than anything else ever could.
A week later, Dr. Reyes called me into his office.
“Lina’s condition is worsening. The tumor isn’t responding well to chemotherapy. We will try other options, but the outlook… is not favorable.”
My strength left me.
For the first time in my life, I was terrified of losing someone.
That night, I held her hand. She barely had the strength to speak. I leaned close and whispered:
“If you can… I want to marry you again.
I don’t care about papers.
I just want to see you every morning, hold your hand every night—for as long as you’re here.
We don’t need a grand beginning… just together.”
Lina touched my cheek and gave a faint, tearful smile.
“I… I agree.”
In the days that followed, we had a simple wedding right there in the hospital room:
a nurse tied a red ribbon on her wrist, a few sampaguita flowers were brought in.
No music, no guests—only the beeping of machines and whispered vows.
Three months later, Lina passed away in my arms.
In that short time, we had lived again as husband and wife.
I still keep our old wedding photo… and the letter she left behind—my two sacred treasures.
I don’t cry every night anymore.
But whenever I walk through the long corridors of PGH, I remember the moment I first saw her again—
the moment that changed the rest of my life forever.
In the endless noise of Metro Manila, I still sometimes hear a soft whisper:
“Thank you for loving me.”