Tình and I met through mutual friends. At that time, I had only one very simple and masculine thought in my head: when I got married, she had to be beautiful, someone who would make me proud.

The day I met her, I was disappointed. She wasn’t wearing makeup, her hair was neatly tied back, and she was a little plump. I sat there, trying to maintain the minimum level of politeness, already thinking of ways to get out of there. I even asked a friend to call her and pretend I had something urgent to do so I could leave early.

But she was different. She took the initiative to strike up conversations, ask questions, and smiled very gently. Looking back, I think that perhaps from that moment on, she was much more serious about me than I had imagined.

And what about me? I treated her as a backup option. We were indifferent for a whole year, while I was busy pursuing other beautiful girls and constantly failing.

It wasn’t until my mother urged me to get married that I suddenly realized I had no better option. I convinced myself that marrying a kind wife would be enough.

And, after a gathering of friends that I attended with Tinh, I discovered another side of her: confident, mature, intelligent, and very charming. Finally, I proposed, and she said yes immediately.

She once said to me with a laugh:

– I don’t need you to be rich, I just need you to treat me with sincerity.

And what was I thinking at the time? I thought I was lucky.

When I married Tình, I thought I was lucky. (Illustrative image)

After we got married, Tình was the kind of woman that outsiders could only exclaim “perfect” about. She earned a good income, managed the household, and took care of me in every aspect of my life, from meals to sleep. I was used to being served, used to receiving without giving anything in return. I never once asked her if she was tired, if she was in pain, or if she was worried about anything.

After four years without children, I started to change. I became irritable, frustrated, and vented all my anger on the woman who always silently endured it. Once, during an argument, she said through tears:

If you think I’m so useless, then let me go.

I smirked:

– Go ahead and try it, I don’t believe you’ll find anyone better than me.

I never imagined I could be so cruel.

The day I discovered she was having an affair, my pride was deeply wounded. I angrily proposed a divorce, while she remained strangely calm. Before signing the papers, she only said one thing:

– Now that you’re divorced, remember to take care of yourself.

I thought she was pragmatic, greedy, and betrayed me. Little did I know that it was the last time she would speak to me with such gentleness.

I was furious when I found out my wife was having an affair. (Illustrative image)

Until that class reunion.

I met Tình again, looking thin and pale. The bitterness within me surged. I blocked her at the restroom door, pulled out my wallet, and threw 50 million dong on the ground as if discarding the last vestiges of a marriage. I said things that even I wouldn’t dare remember later.

And then her best friend appeared, her eyes filled with both anger and pity. She spoke, almost shouting:

– You’re such an idiot! She’s seriously ill, and she’s forcing you to divorce her because she’s afraid of implicating you!

Those words were like a knife stabbing straight into my heart.

Tình stopped her friend, nodded in confirmation, then turned and ran away. I stood there, my mind blank. All the pieces suddenly fit together cruelly, from her exhaustion, her secret visits to the hospital, to her resigned acceptance without a word of complaint.

It turns out that woman never betrayed me; I was the only one who betrayed her.

I knelt down and cried like a child. I cried for my stupidity, for the love I had trampled on, for a woman who loved me so much that she accepted a bad reputation so that I could be relieved of my burden.

Now, I don’t know if I have any chance to make amends. Perhaps the only thing I can do is face the truth, learn to become a kinder person, no matter how late it is. There are people we only realize how precious they were after we lose them, and there are regrets that will haunt us for a lifetime.