06/09/2024
Married or Not, You Should Read This...
One quiet evening, I came home, sat down for dinner, and reached for my wife’s hand. The words I was about to say weighed heavily on my heart. I hesitated, and then, with a voice trembling, I finally spoke, “I have something to tell you.” Her eyes met mine, and in them, I saw a depth of pain that almost broke me. But I had to say it.
“I want a divorce,” I whispered, as if saying it softly might somehow lessen the blow. To my surprise, she didn’t react with the fury I expected. Instead, her voice was soft, almost broken, as she asked, “Why?”
The question pierced through me, but I couldn’t find the courage to answer. My silence only deepened her pain, and in a moment of hurt, she threw down her chopsticks and shouted, “You’re not a man!” Her words echoed through the silence that followed. That night, she wept quietly, and though she tried to understand where we had gone wrong, I offered no answers. I had fallen out of love with her, and my heart now belonged to someone else—Jane.
Guilt gnawed at me as I drafted a divorce agreement. I offered her everything—the house, the car, 30% of my company. She looked at the paper, then tore it to pieces with a strength I hadn’t seen in years. The woman who had shared ten years of her life with me now seemed like a stranger. I felt the weight of wasting her time, but I was resolute—I believed I loved Jane, and I couldn’t take back my words. When she finally broke down, crying, I felt a twisted sense of relief, as if her tears validated my decision.
The next evening, I came home late, and she was at the table, writing. I didn’t ask what she was doing, too drained from my day with Jane to care. When I woke up the next morning, she was still there, pen in hand. I ignored her and went about my routine, not knowing how much I was about to lose.
Later that morning, she handed me her own terms for the divorce. She didn’t want anything from me—not the house, not the car, not a single cent. All she asked for was one month before we finalized things, a month to keep our family together for the sake of our son’s upcoming exams. She also had one other request—each morning, I would carry her from our bedroom to the front door, just as I had carried her into our home on our wedding day. It seemed like a strange request, but I agreed, thinking it would make our last days together a bit easier.
When I told Jane about my wife’s conditions, she laughed, dismissing them as foolish. “She’s trying to buy time,” Jane said. “But it won’t change anything.”
The first morning, I felt the awkwardness of carrying her, our son clapping his hands in joy, “Daddy’s holding Mommy!” His innocent delight tore at my heart. As I carried her through the house, she closed her eyes and whispered, “Don’t tell our son about the divorce.” I nodded, a pang of guilt tightening my chest. I set her down gently outside the door, and she walked away without looking back.
As the days went by, something began to change. Carrying her became easier, almost natural. The familiar scent of her perfume, the feel of her body against mine—it stirred memories long buried under the rubble of our crumbling marriage. I hadn’t really looked at her in years, and now, as I did, I saw the toll the years had taken on her—on us. Her face had aged, her hair had begun to gray, and I felt a strange, aching sense of regret.
By the fourth day, I noticed a warmth returning to our interactions, a closeness I thought we had lost forever. By the fifth and sixth days, that warmth had grown into something stronger, something that felt like the intimacy we once shared. I kept these feelings from Jane, afraid of what they might mean.
Then, one morning, as she struggled to find a dress that fit, she sighed, “All my clothes have become too big.” It hit me like a freight train—she had lost so much weight. I reached out, touching her head gently, feeling the unspoken pain she had been carrying alone.
Our son entered the room, his eyes bright with joy, “Dad, it’s time to carry Mom!” This ritual had become the highlight of his day, and as my wife hugged him tightly, I turned away, tears threatening to spill over. I was terrified that if I lingered, I might lose the resolve to go through with the divorce.
On the last day of our agreement, I held her close, barely able to move. Our son had left for school, and as I carried her for the final time, I whispered, “I hadn’t noticed that our life had lost its intimacy.” I left for work, my heart in turmoil, afraid that if I stayed a moment longer, I might change my mind.
When I reached Jane’s place, I knew what I had to do. “I’m sorry, Jane,” I said, my voice heavy with newfound clarity. “I don’t want a divorce anymore.”
She looked at me, her face a mix of shock and disbelief. “Are you sick? Do you have a fever?” she asked, reaching out to touch my forehead. I gently removed her hand, “No, Jane, I’m not sick. I just realized that our marriage was never lacking love. We simply stopped appreciating the little things, the moments that build a life together. I was blind, but now I see—I should have held onto her from the moment I carried her into our home until death do us part.”
Jane slapped me, tears streaming down her face, and slammed the door behind her. I left, my heart heavy but determined. On the way home, I stopped at a flower shop and bought a bouquet of roses for my wife. I asked the salesgirl to write on the card, “I’ll carry you out every morning until death do us part.”
That evening, I rushed home, flowers in hand, only to find my wife lying in bed, lifeless. She had been battling cancer for months, and in my selfishness, I hadn’t even noticed. She knew she was dying and had tried to protect me from the pain of our son’s reaction to the divorce. In her final days, she gave me a gift—a chance to remember the love we once shared, to be the husband and father our son believed me to be.
The small details in life are what truly matter in a relationship. It’s not the mansion, the car, the money, or the material possessions. These things may create an environment for happiness, but they cannot bring happiness themselves.
Take the time to be your spouse’s friend and cherish the little things that build intimacy. Have a truly happy marriage!
If you don’t share this, nothing will happen to you. But if you do, you might just save a marriage. Many of life’s failures are due to people not realizing how close they were to success when they gave up.
