Once A Neglected Wife, Now His Greatest Regret

I didn’t sleep. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the two documents lying on the dining table. Somehow, the divorce papers hurt more. It wasn’t the idea of losing my marriage. It was realizing how little it seemed to mean to Damian.

Our home had never felt this quiet before. Not once did he knock on our bedroom door. Not once did he ask if I was alright. I smiled bitterly into the darkness. I used to tell myself Damian simply wasn’t good at expressing his feelings. Now I wondered if he had any to express in the first place.

My eyes wandered to the framed wedding photo on my nightstand. I picked it up carefully. I looked so happy in it. My smile reached all the way to my eyes, and my hands were wrapped tightly around Damian’s arm as though I were afraid someone might wake me from the dream. Damian wasn’t smiling. He never smiled in photographs. Back then, I thought it made him look mysterious. Now it just looked like someone attending a mandatory business event.

I traced my thumb over the glass. Our wedding had been the happiest day of my life. I’d believed I was marrying the man I’d spend forever with. I’d believed love would come with time. Everyone had told me Damian wasn’t naturally affectionate. “He’s just reserved.” “Give him time.” “He loves differently.” So I waited. I learned how he liked his coffee. I memorized every important meeting on his calendar so I wouldn’t interrupt him. I started eating dinner later because he rarely came home before eight. Eventually, I stopped making dinner at all because reheated food became our most frequent guest. I convinced myself those weren’t sacrifices. They were compromises. That’s what marriage was supposed to be. Wasn’t it?

A memory surfaced before I could stop it. Our first anniversary. I’d spent two weeks planning everything—his favorite restaurant, a private violinist, the watch he’d admired months earlier while pretending he wasn’t interested. I waited three hours before the restaurant manager finally approached my table with the kindest smile I’d ever seen. “I’m very sorry, Mrs. Ashford. He called. He won’t be coming.” Damian arrived home after midnight carrying a diamond bracelet that cost more than my first apartment. “I’m sorry,” he’d said. “There was an emergency meeting.” I hugged him anyway, because that’s what wives did. Or at least, that’s what I thought wives did.

A soft knock interrupted my thoughts. I looked toward the bedroom door. For one ridiculous second, my heart leaped. Damian. Maybe he’d changed his mind. Maybe he’d realized how cruel yesterday had been. Maybe—

“Mrs. Ashford?”

It was Martha. I smiled sadly. Of course. “Come in.”

She stepped inside carrying a breakfast tray. “I made pancakes.” She looked at me carefully before setting the tray down. “You should eat something.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“You need your strength.”

I nodded, even though neither of us believed I would touch the food. Martha hesitated near the door. “I’ve worked for this family for twenty years.” I looked up. “I’ve watched Master Damian grow from a teenager into the man he is today.” Something in her voice made my stomach tighten. “He’s not a bad man.”

I looked away. “I know.”

“He just…” She sighed. “He doesn’t always see what’s right in front of him.”

My throat tightened. “I hope one day he does.”

“So do I.”

After she left, I stared at the pancakes until they grew cold, just like every dinner I’d ever waited to share with my husband.

—

The hospital smelled like antiseptic. Everything was too white, the walls, the ceilings, the uniforms. Even the flowers at reception were white lilies. I suddenly hated white. It reminded me of hospitals, of wedding dresses, of endings disguised as new beginnings.

A nurse guided me toward a consultation room. “The surgeon wants to review everything once more.” I nodded. My hands wouldn’t stop shaking. The surgeon introduced himself with a warm smile that somehow made me even more nervous. He explained the procedure again, the recovery, the medications, the possible complications. Most patients recovered well. Some experienced severe pain. Some developed infections. Rarely, very rarely, life-threatening complications occurred.

“Do you have any questions?” he asked gently.

I did. Hundreds of them. Would I wake up? Would I be the same afterward? Would it hurt? Would Damian stay beside me? Instead, I heard myself ask, “Will Sophia be alright?”

The surgeon smiled. “Assuming the transplant is successful, her prognosis improves significantly.”

I nodded. “Good.”

He studied me for a moment. “You seem frightened.”

“I am.”

“Then why proceed?”

The question lingered between us. Why? Because I loved my husband. Because somewhere beneath all the disappointment, I still believed he loved me too. Maybe he just needed something this enormous to finally see me. Maybe after this, he’d realize no one else would have done what I was doing. Maybe he’d look at me differently. Maybe he’d finally choose me. It sounded foolish even inside my own head. Still, I had hope. “I want to help,” I answered quietly.

The surgeon gave me a sympathetic smile before leaving the room. A few minutes later, the door opened again. Damian walked in. He looked exactly the same as he had yesterday, perfectly tailored suit, perfectly neat hair, perfectly unreadable expression. His eyes landed on the unsigned consent form resting on the table.

I picked up the pen. My fingers trembled so badly I almost dropped it. This was it. Once I signed, there was no changing my mind. I closed my eyes for a second. Please let this be enough. Please let him finally love me. I signed my name. Vivian Hart Ashford.

The ink hadn’t even dried before Damian picked up the document. He glanced at my signature, folded the papers neatly, and slipped them into the folder. “Thank you.” Two words. That was all. Not “I’m sorry.” Not “You’re brave.” Not “I know what this costs you.” Just “Thank you.” He checked his watch. “I need to tell Sophia.” Then he turned around and walked out. The door clicked shut behind him.

I stared at it for several seconds. That was it? I had just agreed to risk my life for him, and he was already gone.

A nurse entered moments later. “It’s time.”

I nodded. “I’m ready.”

I wasn’t. They helped me into a hospital gown before guiding me onto the narrow bed. The mattress felt strangely cold beneath me. Someone tucked a blanket around my legs. Another nurse checked my wristband. The wheels beneath the bed began moving. Every ceiling light drifted slowly overhead as they pushed me through the corridor. I kept searching every face we passed, looking for Damian. Maybe he’d come back. Maybe he’d changed his mind. Maybe he’d realized I shouldn’t face this alone. Every corner we turned disappointed me.

The closer we came to the operating theatre, the louder my heartbeat became. I wanted to run. I wanted to climb off the bed and tell everyone I’d made a mistake. I wanted to go home. Instead, I gripped the blanket until my knuckles turned white. This is for Damian. This is for our marriage. This is what love looks like. Isn’t it?

The operating room doors opened. Bright lights flooded my vision. Machines beeped steadily around me. Masked doctors moved with calm efficiency while introducing themselves one after another. Someone adjusted an IV. Someone else attached monitors to my chest. The anesthesiologist smiled above his mask. “We’re going to take good care of you.”

I nodded, though my throat had gone completely dry. “Is…” My voice cracked. “Is my husband here?”

There was a brief silence. Then one of the nurses answered gently. “He stepped out.”

Of course he did. I blinked rapidly, refusing to cry now. Not here. Not when everyone was watching. I could cry later. Afterward. When Damian came to see me. He would come. Wouldn’t he?

The anesthesiologist lowered the oxygen mask over my nose and mouth. “Take slow, deep breaths for me.” I obeyed. One breath. Then another. The lights above me blurred. Everything started feeling wonderfully distant. My eyelids grew heavier. Maybe when I woke up, everything would be different. Maybe Damian would finally look at me the way I’d always looked at him. Maybe this sacrifice would finally be enough.

The room suddenly erupted into frantic voices. “Wait.” “Her pressure—” “Doctor!” Someone grabbed my arm. Another voice shouted from somewhere beyond the bright lights. “Her blood pressure is dropping!”