26/08/2025
"MY WIFE DIED BECAUSE OF MY PRIDE"
This is a real life story/confession....
My wife and I had a small argument one Monday morning while we were getting ready for work. I got annoyed over something so petty, the way she had buttered the bread. It wasn’t spread neatly, and instead of ignoring it, I made a harsh remark. My words cracked through the room like thunder.
If I had known what was coming, I would have closed my eyes, eaten the bread silently, and smiled at her instead. But I didn’t.
She was hurt by my tone. She pushed her plate aside, left the table without eating, and went to work without saying goodbye. I was angry too, and neither of us wanted to take the first step toward peace.
That evening, we came home without speaking. We ate separately and went to bed in silence. Tuesday, Wednesday, and then Thursday passed the same way, our pride building walls between us.
On Thursday night at dinner, she finally broke the silence. She whispered a soft “hi.”
I wanted to respond, but my pride held me back. I kept eating, pretending not to hear, then stood up and left. Still, she smiled at me, so softly, so beautifully. Her smile could melt any heart. But I forced myself to resist. I told myself: If this fight is going to end, she should be the one to apologize. Not me.
Later that night, she went to shower while humming our favorite song. If I hadn’t been so stubborn, I would have joined her, like we always did. But I let my pride rob me of that moment too.
When she came out of the bathroom, I was already pretending to sleep. Around 3 a.m., she gently patted me, trying to wake me up. I brushed her hand away, thinking she just wanted space. I didn’t know it was the last time I would ever feel her touch.
I fell back asleep. When I woke up at 7:15, late for work, she was still in bed. I didn’t say a word to her. My pride was stronger than my love in that moment. I hurried, ate breakfast, and left the house without even looking back.
That evening, when I returned home, the house felt strange. The door was still wide open, the table untouched, exactly as I had left it that morning. My chest tightened. I rushed upstairs and found her still lying in bed.
My phone slipped from my hand as I ran to her.
“Baby…” I whispered, trembling.
Her skin was cold. Her chest wasn’t moving.
I collapsed beside her, crying out her name, pressing my ear to her chest. Nothing. No heartbeat. No breath. I screamed for Jesus to bring her back, but it was too late.
It didn’t feel real until the day they buried her. My wife was gone. Just like that.
Only then did I realize the truth. My wife had asthma. That night at 3 a.m., when she reached out to wake me, she must have been having an attack. She was probably asking me for help, for her inhaler, for air, for life. But I let my pride get in the way. I brushed her hand aside. I turned my back on her. And I let the woman I loved die beside me.
It has been three weeks since that day. My world is broken. My heart is empty. If I could turn back time, I would undo every harsh word, every silence, every stubborn choice.
Today, all I can do is whisper her name and hope she hears me:
Stella, forgive me.
I’m sorry. I’m sorry, my love.
⸻
Ctto
