It was a cold, quiet morning. The room was still cloaked in the early grey of dawn. David stirred and instinctively reached for Maylie, but the bed beside him was empty. His brows furrowed as he sat up and glanced toward the bathroom.
"Maylie?" he called softly. No response.
He checked inside. Empty.
He turned to the clock. 5:00 AM.
Something didn't feel right.
Worried, he quickly slipped on his slippers and stepped out into the hallway. As he made his way toward the kitchen, a faint, harsh sound caught his ears — a cough. Sharp and persistent. It came from the backyard.
He rushed outside.
Under the soft dim of the porch light, he saw a figure curled on a chair, shoulders trembling slightly.
"Who's there?" he called, concern rising in his chest.
Maylie turned her head. Her face was pale.
"Oh... you're awake," she said in a strained voice.
David hurried to her and knelt beside the chair. "What are you doing out here? It's freezing."
"I couldn't sleep. I was having chest pain," she answered, coughing again. "So I came for some air."
He gently touched her forehead. "You don't have a fever... then what is this? You're scaring me."
"I don't know, David. It just feels... different."
"Come inside. You shouldn't be out here in this state."
They walked in quietly. David helped her into bed and stayed close, watching her breathing grow heavier with time.
That Evening
All day, Maylie's coughing worsened. Miss Dora noticed her wincing in pain and asked gently, "Are you alright, my dear?"
Maylie gave a weak smile. "I'm okay, Mom. Just a bit tired."
Later that night, David returned home from work. As soon as he stepped through the door, his eyes locked onto Maylie — her body trembling, lips pale, still coughing.
She smiled faintly and stepped forward to greet him — and collapsed.
"Maylie!" David shouted, rushing forward. "Maylie, wake up! Talk to me!"
Miss Dora came running from the kitchen, followed by Lara.
"What happened?!" Miss Dora screamed.
"I—I don't know! She smiled at me... and then just fell down."
"I'll get the car ready!" Miss Dora said. "Take her to the hospital. I'm coming with you."
"But someone has to stay with Harry."
Lara stepped forward. "Sir, I'll stay. Don't worry. Just go."
David gently picked Maylie up in his arms and rushed to the car, heart pounding louder than the engine. Every red light felt like a curse. Every second stretched into eternity.
The Hospital
At the hospital, nurses rushed to wheel Maylie away as David stood frozen outside the emergency room doors. Twenty agonizing minutes passed.
Then, the doctor appeared.
"Doctor—how is she? Is she okay? Please tell me she's okay!" David asked, breathless.
"We've sedated her for now. She's stable... but we've taken blood samples for testing," the doctor replied calmly. "We need the lab reports before we can say anything conclusive."
David nodded, chest heaving. "Doctor… can I ask you something?"
"Of course."
"Could... could this be connected to her past miscarriages?"
The doctor took a breath. "Has she had miscarriages before?"
David looked down. "Yes… three."
"Do you have children now?"
"Yes, a baby boy. He's 7 months old. He's perfectly healthy."
The doctor looked thoughtful, then took off his glasses. "Alright. Let's wait for the reports. I'll return soon."
David and Miss Dora sat in silence, hands clasped tightly. The tension felt like thunder in their veins.
Finally, after nearly an hour, a nurse arrived with the reports. The doctor took them, reviewed each page, then came back out.
David stood. "Doctor? Please… talk to me. What do the reports say?"
The doctor's face dropped. He hesitated. "Mr. Stevenson… please try to stay calm."
David's heart dropped. "Just tell me…"
"Your wife," the doctor began, "has been diagnosed with choriocarcinoma."
David blinked. "Wha…what is that?"
Miss Dora stepped forward. "Doctor, please explain."
The doctor took a deep breath. "Choriocarcinoma is a rare and aggressive cancer. It starts from cells that were part of the placenta during pregnancy… and sometimes… after multiple miscarriages, those cells turn cancerous."
"Ca—cancer?" David whispered, his voice shaking.
"Yes. And…" The doctor paused painfully. "She's had it for over four years, according to what we've found."
David froze. "F—four years?"
"The maximum survival in such cases is around five years. And… she's already in the final stage. There's nothing we can do to cure it now."
David backed against the wall, his hands in his hair, his breathing ragged. "No… NO! You can't say that! There has to be a way! I'll pay anything—I'll fly her anywhere—please, Doctor!"
"I'm sorry," the doctor said quietly. "She may have four to five months left. At best."
"No… no… I can't—"
David dropped to his knees as tears streamed down his cheeks. Miss Dora knelt beside him, pulling him into her arms.
"My child…" she whispered, her voice breaking. "Be strong. For her. For Harry."
David buried his face into his mother's shoulder. "Why her, Mom? Why her?"
"Sometimes," she whispered through her own tears, "even the kindest souls suffer the most. But we must give her happiness now. Every moment counts."
The Way Home
A ward boy approached them. "You may take your wife home now, sir. This is the list of medications prescribed by the doctor. These will keep her calm and ease the pain."
David nodded slowly, eyes red but determined.
The boy added gently, "Please, act normal around her. She doesn't know yet. Let her smile for as long as she can."
David looked up, lips trembling. "I'll try. For her… I'll try."