Love and hate intertwined

I should have asked him.

A normal wife would have screamed, demanded answers, or at least asked about the perfume. But I just stood there, my mouth opening slightly and then snapping shut. I said nothing. As if everything about the night was perfectly ordinary.

The next morning, I woke up before dawn. There was a dull, persistent ache in my upper abdomen, but I ignored it and dragged myself out of bed to make breakfast.

Silas suffered from severe stress-induced gastritis.

Two years ago, he had a severe flare-up and was hospitalized at NYU Langone for half a month. I stayed by his bedside every single day, sleeping in an uncomfortable plastic chair and helping him manage his emails.

The nurses would often whisper about how lucky he was to have such a devoted, diligent wife.

I remember one afternoon during that hospital stay. Silas was sitting up against the stark white pillows, his face pale, looking exhausted. As I peeled an apple for him, his deep, unfathomable eyes tracked my movements with a blank expression.

"We could hire a private nurse, Nina," he said, his voice raspy.

My knife slipped, breaking the apple peel. He noticed and said, "You don't have to work this hard."

"It's not the same," I replied softly.

People always assume that doing things yourself is more valuable than paying a stranger to do it. When you love someone, you naturally care for them far more than anyone hired to do a job.

He asked, "What's the difference?"

I looked at him and gave a silly, genuine smile. "Because you're my husband."

Ever since he was discharged, curing his stomach issues had become my personal mission.

Silas was a workaholic who frequently forgot to eat when the markets were volatile. So, I started waking up early every day to prepare stomach-friendly meals for him. If I had the time, I'd order an Uber and deliver a hot lunch directly to the Financial District.

Over the years, these routines had become second nature.

Today, Silas woke up earlier than usual. Before I could even reach out to help adjust his tie, he grabbed the insulated bento box off the marble counter and hurried toward the elevator.

Right before the doors opened, he paused and looked back at me standing in the kitchen. In that fleeting second, the coldness in his eyes seemed to melt into a sliver of warmth, like the first ray of sunlight hitting pristine snow.

"I'm leaving, Nina," he said.

"Drive safely," I replied. Just like countless mornings before.