After that, she slowly started to come back.
She began eating again. Talking again. Smiling at me again.
I thought she'd moved on. I thought time could wash anything away.
So a year later, I told her how I felt.
I'd been carrying those words for years. I'd planned to carry them to my grave.
But I wanted to give myself one chance.
She was quiet for a long time. And then, to my disbelief, she nodded.
I was over the moon. In that single moment, it felt like the whole world was mine.
On our wedding day, I told her I'd be good to her. Good to her for the rest of my life.
She smiled and said she believed me.
For fifty years, I kept that promise. I worked hard so she could live well.
When she got sick, I sat at her bedside through the night, every night. If she craved something, I'd cross half the city to find it.
We had our fights. We had our silences. But we never truly separated.
I thought that was happiness. I thought that was what love looked like when it was whole.
Until the very end, when our son asked her if she had any regrets.
She answered through tears.
The biggest regret of my life is not getting on that boat.
Fifty years.