My Husband Spoiled Me for 34 Years—Then a Blood Test Exposed His Family’s Darkest Secret (2 of 3)

He only smiled. “She just depends on me.”

“No,” I insisted. “It’s because you’re too kind. Too easy to command.”

That was the only time he ever raised his voice at me.
“Let’s divorce then. Anyone afraid of divorce is a coward.”

The words sliced through me. Yet two days later, he appeared with a box of my favorite ice cream, grinning shyly.

“I’m that coward. Forgive me.”

And I laughed through tears, letting the fight dissolve.

Years moved swiftly. His father died young. His older brother, too. The youngest was lost to crime. Piece by piece, the family’s weight crushed only him. And still, his mother leaned harder. He never complained.

When our daughter left for college, I thought we’d finally have time for each other. Instead, illness struck. High blood pressure, diabetes, a failing heart—until a stroke unraveled everything. I became his nurse: feeding, bathing, lifting. I thought, He gave me his whole life. Now it’s my turn.

The hardest wound wasn’t his illness—it was his mother’s absence. She never came, not once, until the very end. With fading breath he whispered, “Mom… I want your cooking.” She cooked four dishes, but sent his younger brother to deliver them. He could no longer eat. Instead, he looked at me, urging me to eat for him. And I realized—he was still trying to cook for me, through her hands. I ate, sobbing.

When the hospital ran out of his blood type, his brother stepped forward. But tests revealed a truth that shattered me: my husband was not his mother’s child.

I confronted him later. He only nodded. He had overheard the truth years ago. All his silence, all his resigned smiles—it wasn’t indifference. It was longing. He bore her coldness hoping for scraps of love he never received.