I held her hand when we had nothing. Now I hold it as she fights for every breath. I cannot let go. Not yet. Not like this.
She stood by me through every storm. Now it is my turn.
My name is Ramesh. I am 71 years old. I have worked as a small farmer my whole life — calloused hands, simple meals, a small home, and the love of a woman who made every hardship feel lighter than it was.
When our children were young and there was no food on the table, Sadiya would smile, give me her share, and say, "They need their father strong." When I lost my brother and could not get out of bed for weeks, she held the house together with her quiet, steady hands.
One month ago, she collapsed at home. The hospital said it is a serious disease — one that needs medicines, tests, and treatments I do not understand and cannot afford. I have sold the little jewelry she had. I have borrowed from everyone I know. The bills keep coming. The medicines keep running out.
Every night, I sit beside her bed and pretend everything will be fine. She smiles weakly and says, "Don't worry, ji." She is comforting me. She, who is in pain, is comforting me.
