There are times when he can’t even walk to the window. I carry him, slowly, as if every movement is a prayer that he won’t get hurt.
“Do you remember,” he suddenly asked one afternoon, “our first fight?”
I laughed bitterly. “The one about the dish?”
“Yes,” he said. “I want sinigang. You are adobo.”
“You still won,” I said.
“No,” he laughed softly. “We’re both losers. We don’t know how to talk.”
I bowed my head. If only I had learned to listen—not just to what he said, but to what he didn’t say.
One night, while it was raining heavily, he handed me a small wooden box.
“Open it when I’m asleep,” he said. “Or when… I don’t wake up.”
I didn’t want to accept it, but he insisted. “Mark, don’t prolong the pain of not knowing.”
The next day, when he was sound asleep, I opened the box.
It contains an ultrasound photo .
My eyes widened.
There is a date—three years ago.
A letter is included.
“I’m pregnant, Mark.
But he also disappeared… with the first chemo.”
I sat down on the floor. It felt like someone had sucked the air out of my lungs.
“I didn’t tell you because it might hurt you more.”
And maybe you’ll hold on even tighter to a fight that I know will be difficult.”
I sobbed in silence.
My anger was gone.
His coldness was carrying a sadness I had never seen before.
When he woke up, I couldn’t take it anymore.
“Kara,” I said tremblingly, “let’s go back to the hospital.”
He fell silent. He looked at the lake.
“I’m tired,” he replied. “Not from the pain… but from the fighting.”
I knelt down in front of him. “I will fight for you. Even if it’s just for now.”
Long silence.
Finally, he nodded. “If we go back… not out of fear. Out of hope.”
We returned to the city. At the hospital, the doctors greeted us with surprise—and hope. The treatment began again. There were days when he couldn’t speak from the pain. There were nights when I just held his hand, praying in silence.
Diane came once.
His face wasn’t angry—it was sad.
“I know,” he said. “And… I’m not angry. I hope… you choose the right one.”
“Thank you,” I replied. “And sorry.”
He smiled and left, carrying a dignity that I could not match.
One morning, after a difficult night, Kara’s eyes opened.
“Mark,” she whispered, “the light is beautiful.”
I nodded, even though my eyes were filled with tears. “Yes. I’m just here.”
He squeezed my hand. “No matter what happens… don’t forget that I love you.”
“I love you too,” I replied, my voice finally intact.
Outside the window, the sun was rising.
And between pain and hope, I learned that there are loves that are not measured by duration—but by the courage to face the truth, even when it’s too late.
Leave a Comment