My and I loved each other for three years before getting married. Back then, everyone said we were the best match in the neighborhood: I was quiet and kind; My was gentle, patient, and always had a heartwarming smile. We had been married for four years but still had no children. Whenever My saw a baby, she would secretly sigh. And every time I saw her like that, my heart felt a pang—because I felt it was my fault.
When we went for a check-up, the doctor said I was the reason we couldn’t conceive. I felt like I was punched in the chest at that moment. But My didn’t blame me. She held my hand and said:
“It’s okay. It can be treated. A child is a blessing—it will come at the right time.”
My family loved My even more. They were always afraid she might leave me because of my problem, but she didn’t. She took even better care of me—cautious, gentle, full of love. We had loved each other for seven years, married for four—enough time to believe that My was the woman destined for my entire life.
After a few months, I noticed something strange about my body: I had no appetite, I was always tired, and I was losing weight fast. But because we were saving for IVF, I endured it. I didn’t want to spend money on medicine and delay our plan to have a child.
Until one day, I looked in the mirror—my shoulder bones were protruding, my face was thin, my skin pale. My was worried:
“You’re so weak. Please, go see a doctor.”
I said I was fine. But when I couldn’t hold a bowl of rice anymore, I finally agreed.
And the result came out: Cancer.
My knees weakened. I lost my hearing from what the doctor said. All I could think was: “I’m only 30… I still have elderly parents… and My—who hopes every day to become a mother.”
That night, I gave My the results. Her hands trembled, and she suddenly sobbed loudly on my shoulder. I thought she would shatter, but she quickly steadied herself. After she cried, she sat beside me, her voice soft but firm:
“You need to be hospitalized. We can’t hide it from your parents anymore. But remember, the most important thing with this disease is courage. You must not give up.”
Tears streamed down my face. She stroked my hair and whispered:
“I’m sorry… but for now, Mama will have to take care of you.”
I was confused. Why did she say that?
The next day—My was gone.
She only left a short note:
“I have something I need to do. Don’t worry about me. You can do it.”
I felt like I was doused with ice water.
What is more important than your wife who has cancer?
What job or reason would prevent you from calling even once in three months?
From pain, my feelings turned to anger.
I fought the disease for three months while hating the woman I trusted the most. My parents and My’s parents took turns caring for me. The doctor said my condition was severe. Night after night, I thought about death—and My’s departure without a word.
Until one rainy afternoon, as I was on oxygen, I heard Mama scream:
“Son… My is back!”
I turned my back on her. I didn’t want to see her.
But when she walked in… her body was rounder. She looked fresher. More radiant.
I was filled with anger.
She approached me. Her voice was faint:
“Hon… I’m here.”
I closed my eyes, refusing to speak to her. But she placed a paper in my palm. I opened it—
And I almost screamed:
Ultrasound. Positive. My was pregnant.
I couldn’t believe it.
I looked at her slightly bulging belly.
My voice trembled: “W-when did this happen…?”
My knelt beside the bed, sobbing:
“I underwent IVF for three months… alone. Over and over. The chances were low because I was stressed, but I didn’t stop… Because I was afraid you would lose hope. I wanted to give you a reason to fight.”
I felt like I was nailed down.
I thought she abandoned me.
But it turns out… she was doing the only thing to give me a reason to live.
She continued to cry:
“I knew they would stop me if they found out. I knew people would say terrible things. But I didn’t care. I wanted to give birth to your child—even at the cost of exhaustion, pain, risk… as long as you would change your mind and keep fighting.”
I hugged her tightly. I cried like a child.
I was ashamed of all the bad things I thought about her.
I was grateful that she became my wife.
I held her belly, trembling:
“How is the baby…?”
My nodded, her tears falling onto my hand:
“Healthy. And you… you need to live to see him.”
And there, I felt a strength I never thought I still had.
I don’t know how much longer I have.
But one thing is certain: I will fight.
I will fight for the child for whom my wife sacrificed everything— her body, her honor, the months of solitude and suffering. I will fight for My— the woman everyone thought “left” me, but in truth, she was the one who loved me in the bravest, most definite, and most beautiful way. That child… is the miracle of my life. And My— the woman I thought turned her back on me— she was the one who saved me.