From the start, he was kind and attentive, always willing to listen to me vent about my day, never once distracted by his phone or looking bored. He was everything I thought I needed.
What sealed my affection for him was when he showed up on my doorstep with homemade chicken soup and a collection of my favorite rom-coms. “Everyone needs a little TLC when they’re feeling down,” he said with that charming smile of his.
This is it, I thought. This is the man I’ve been waiting for.
One of the things that endeared Martin to me was his nervous stammer. When he was anxious or stressed, his words would stumble over each other, and I found it adorable. It made him feel more real, more human.
Like the time, a month into our relationship, when he took me to a fancy Italian restaurant for our “monthiversary.” He was passionately explaining the new accounting software at his firm, waving his fork around, when it slipped from his hand, sending tomato sauce all over his shirt. His face turned beet red.
“I-I’m s-s-sorry,” he stammered, looking mortified. “I d-didn’t m-mean to m-mess up.”
I reached across the table, took his hand, and smiled. “It’s okay. Red suits you.”
He laughed, and the tension melted away. That moment solidified my belief that he was someone I could truly be with.
As our relationship grew, Martin opened up about his past, especially about his ex-wife, Janet. He painted a picture of her as someone constantly chasing more—more money, more status, more things. “Nothing was ever enough for her,” he’d say, shaking his head. Their marriage crumbled under the weight of her demands, according to him.
“I couldn’t keep up with her. It felt like I was drowning, and she just kept pushing me under,” he confessed one night. I vowed I’d never be that way—I would love him for who he was, not for what he could provide.
So, when he proposed a year into our relationship, I didn’t hesitate. Our wedding was intimate and beautiful, and it was the happiest day of my life.
But last Tuesday, everything changed.
I had just returned from visiting my mother and decided to surprise Martin with his favorite lasagna. As I pulled into our driveway, I slammed on the brakes when I saw two figures digging in our garden—Martin and Janet.
For a moment, I thought my eyes were deceiving me. What were they doing together? And why were they destroying my garden?
I stormed out of the car and marched over to them. “What’s going on?” I demanded, anger rising in my voice.
Martin froze, dropping the shovel. “M-M-Margaret! Y-you’re h-home early!” His familiar stammer only confirmed my suspicions—he was hiding something.
All the worst thoughts flooded my mind. Was he cheating? Why was Janet here? Why were they digging up our yard?
“We were just…” Martin began, but Janet interrupted.
“She deserves to know, Martin,” she said, wiping her hands. “We buried a time capsule here, ten years ago.”
“A time capsule?” I echoed in disbelief.
“Yes, from when we lived here together,” Janet explained, gesturing to the metal box at their feet. “We always planned to dig it up someday.”
Martin looked sheepish. “Y-yeah, we thought it’d be fun to reminisce.”
I stood there, stunned. “So, you decided to destroy my garden for your little trip down memory lane?”
“I-I’m sorry, I didn’t think—”
“No, you didn’t,” I snapped before walking into the house, slamming the door behind me. Inside, I paced back and forth, trying to wrap my head around what just happened. How could Martin keep this from me? And why on earth would he prioritize his past with Janet over our life together?
I heard the front door open and the sound of hushed voices. Then Martin called out, “Margaret? Can we talk?”
I stepped into the hallway, where they stood with the muddy time capsule between them.
“What’s there to talk about?” I asked coldly.
“Please, let us explain,” Martin pleaded. “It’s not what you think.”
Janet chimed in. “We just wanted to look back. There’s nothing more to it—”
“Fine,” I interrupted. “Go ahead and dig up the past. I’ll be outside.”
I stormed out of the house, feeling a mixture of anger and betrayal. As I looked at the mess they’d made of my garden, an idea formed in my mind.
I gathered wood for a bonfire. By the time the fire was roaring, the sun had set. I could hear Martin and Janet laughing inside, likely over something from the time capsule. I called out, “Why don’t you bring that stuff out here? We could have a bonfire.”
They joined me, bringing the capsule with them. I picked up a handful of its contents—old photos, letters, trinkets. Without hesitation, I tossed them into the flames.
“What are you doing?” Janet gasped.
“Burnt bridges should stay burnt,” I said firmly. “It’s time to focus on the future, not the past.”
As I watched the fire consume their memories, I realized something—Martin wasn’t the perfect man I thought I’d married. He was flawed, just like anyone else.
Janet backed away, her face pale. “I think I should go.”
Neither Martin nor I stopped her as she left. Once we were alone, Martin turned to me with tears in his eyes.
“I’m so sorry, Margaret,” he said. “I never meant to hurt you. I didn’t know how to tell you about the capsule. I was afraid you’d think I still had feelings for Janet. I just wanted to get it done before you came back. I messed up. Can you forgive me?”
“I don’t know,” I replied, staring at the fire. “You’ve broken my trust, Martin. That’s not something you fix overnight.”
“We have a lot to talk about,” I continued. “But not tonight. Tonight, I need some space.”
“I’ll sleep on the couch,” Martin said, defeated, before retreating into the house.
I stayed by the fire as it slowly died down. The garden would need to be replanted. New seeds, new life. Maybe our relationship could be the same.
Only time would tell which path we’d choose. But one thing was certain: Martin would never be the same in my eyes.
What would you have done if you were in my place?
Businessman Loses All Hope After His Diagnosis, but One Hospital Encounter Changes Everything — Story of the Day
When a workaholic businessman receives devastating news about his health, he meets a young boy in the hospital who changes his outlook on life. Their bond grows through unexpected friendship and small acts of kindness, teaching him what truly matters—until a heartbreaking twist reshapes everything.
Andrew, 50, sat at his desk, shuffling through papers while juggling scheduling meetings with his partners.
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He didn’t hear Michael, his assistant, enter the room. Michael stood there, waiting. After a few moments, he cleared his throat.
No response. Andrew kept working, his focus sharp. Michael tried again. “Mr. Smith.” Still no answer. He repeated his name three more times.
Finally, Andrew slammed his hands on the desk and snapped, “What?”
Michael didn’t flinch. “You asked me to tell you if your ex-wife called.”
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Andrew groaned and rubbed his temples. “How many times do I have to tell you? Ignore her calls. What now?”
Michael held a notepad. “She left a message. I should warn you—it’s a direct quote. Her words, not mine.” He read from the note. “‘You pompous jerk, I will never forgive you for wasting so many years of my life. If you don’t give me back my painting, I’ll smash your car.’ That’s the message.”
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Andrew’s face turned red. “We’ve been divorced for two years! Does she not have anything better to do?”
Michael looked at him, waiting for further instructions. “Should I respond to her?”
“No! And stop taking her calls,” Andrew said. Then he paused. “Actually, tell her I threw that painting in the trash!”
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Andrew grabbed a pen and hurled it toward the wall. Michael ducked slightly, gave a polite nod, and left the room.
Moments later, Andrew’s phone rang. He frowned, picking it up.
“Andrew Smith?” a voice asked.
“Yes. Who’s calling?”
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“This is the hospital. Your test results are ready. The doctor wants to see you.”
“Can’t you just tell me now?” Andrew said, irritated. “I’m busy.”
“Sorry, sir. The doctor will explain in person.”
Andrew sighed heavily. “Fine. I’ll come in.” He hung up, shaking his head.
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Andrew rarely allowed himself the luxury of a lunch break, but this time was different. The doctor’s office was quiet, the ticking clock on the wall the only sound.
Andrew sat stiffly in a chair, his fingers tapping against the armrest. When the door opened, the doctor stepped in, his face serious. Andrew frowned, sensing bad news.
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The doctor sat across from him and spoke in a steady, measured tone, using terms Andrew didn’t understand.
Then came the word—cancer. “We need to act fast,” the doctor said.
“Is this some kind of joke?” Andrew asked, his voice sharp. “I own a company. I can’t just check into a hospital.”
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The doctor met his eyes. “Your health should come first. The company can wait.”
Andrew leaned forward. “What are my chances of getting better?”
“I can’t promise anything,” the doctor said. “Starting treatment right away is critical.”
Andrew’s voice rose. “Can I still work while I’m here?”
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“Treatment affects everyone differently,” the doctor explained. “You will stay in the hospital so we can monitor you. Someone can bring you a computer.”
Andrew frowned and stood up. “Fine. I’ll sort it out.”
The doctor watched him leave. “We’ll see you tomorrow with your things,” he said before Andrew reached the door.
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As Andrew walked through the hospital’s pediatric wing, he noticed a boy, about eight years old, tossing a ball back and forth with a nurse.
The sound of their laughter echoed in the corridor. The ball suddenly rolled across the floor and stopped near Andrew’s feet.
“Excuse me, sir!” the boy called out, smiling. “Can you please throw the ball back?”
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Andrew picked up the ball, his face tense. Without a word, he hurled it down the hall, far from the boy and nurse, then turned and walked away.
“That was mean, sir!” the boy shouted.
Andrew had been in the hospital for days that felt like weeks. He tried to keep working, setting up his laptop and pushing through meetings.
But the treatment was draining. Each session left him weaker. The nausea was constant, and sleep was nearly impossible.
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One afternoon, during another long chemotherapy session, Andrew leaned back, his eyes half-closed. He felt miserable.
Suddenly, a small voice broke through his fog. He opened his eyes to see a boy standing in front of him. Startled, Andrew flinched. The boy giggled. It was the same boy from the corridor.
“What do you want, kid?” Andrew mumbled, not even lifting his head.
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“I’ve been walking around the hospital looking for someone to play with. It’s boring here.”
Andrew glanced at him, annoyed. “What’s your name?” he asked.
“Tommy,” the boy replied with a wide grin.
Andrew sighed. “Listen, Tommy. I’m not in the mood to play. Go bother someone else before I start feeling worse.”
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Tommy didn’t move. Instead, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small peppermint candy. He held it out to Andrew. “This helps with nausea. You should try it.”
Andrew hesitated, then snatched the candy and set it on the table.
“You’re really grumpy!” Tommy said, laughing. “I’m going to call you Mr. Grouch. Are you mad because you’re scared of needles?” He pointed at the IV attached to Andrew’s arm.
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Andrew frowned. “I’m not scared of anything.”
Tommy nodded. “That’s fine. I was scared at first too, but then I stopped. My mom says I’m a superhero. Do you have a superpower?”
“No,” Andrew said, his voice flat.
“That’s because you’re too sad,” Tommy replied, his tone serious now.
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Andrew looked at the boy, surprised by the honesty in his big, bright eyes. “Is there anything you want?” Andrew asked.
Tommy grinned. “Yeah. I want to buy flowers for my mom. She works really hard, but I don’t have any money.”
Andrew sighed again, reached for his wallet, and pulled out a few bills. “Here. Get your flowers. Maybe buy yourself something too. But leave me alone.”
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Tommy’s face lit up. “Thanks, Mr. Grouch!” He ran out, clutching the money, while Andrew stared at the peppermint candy on the table.
With a sigh, he picked it up, unwrapped it, and popped it into his mouth. To his surprise, the sharp sweetness helped ease the nausea. It wasn’t much, but it made a difference for a while.
That evening, as Andrew stared at his laptop, a nurse knocked on his door.
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She carried a small paper bag. “This is for you,” she said, placing it on the table. “Tommy sent it.”
Andrew opened the bag and found it full of peppermint candies. He shook his head, unsure whether to feel amused or moved.
The next morning, he decided to find Tommy. He needed to make one thing clear: the money wasn’t a gift.
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As he approached Tommy’s room, he saw a woman leaning against the wall, her shoulders shaking. She was crying.
“Are you okay?” Andrew asked, his voice low.
The woman wiped her eyes quickly and looked up. “Yes… Did you need something?”
“Tommy gave me some candies yesterday,” Andrew said.
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The woman’s lips curved into a small smile. “Oh, so you’re Mr. Grouch,” she said.
Andrew raised an eyebrow. “My name’s Andrew,” he replied.
“I’m Sara,” she said. “Are you here for treatment too?”
Andrew nodded.
“Then you understand,” Sara said quietly. “The bills, the stress. I can’t even pay rent right now. They told me we’ll be evicted in two months.”
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Andrew nodded again, unsure of what to say. Before he could respond, the door burst open. Tommy ran out, his face lighting up when he saw Andrew. “Hey, Mr. Grouch!” he called, grinning ear to ear.
From that day forward, Tommy became a constant presence in Andrew’s life.
The boy would wander into Andrew’s room with a big grin and endless energy. At first, Andrew found it annoying, but Tommy’s persistence wore him down.
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Soon, Andrew began looking forward to the visits. Tommy taught him to notice the simple joys in life.
They sat by the window, watching the sunset, guessing the colors in the sky. They played harmless pranks on nurses, earning scolding looks and stifled smiles.
Sometimes, they “borrowed” wheelchairs and raced down the halls, laughing until their sides hurt.
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Andrew didn’t ask about Tommy’s illness. He wasn’t sure how to bring it up. One afternoon, Tommy mentioned Sara had been crying again. “She’s worried about money,” Tommy said. “We might lose our house.”
Andrew quietly gave Tommy an envelope of cash. “Tell her it’s from a magician,” he said.
When Sara tried to return the money, Andrew waved her off. “I’m not a magician,” he said. “I don’t know where it came from.”
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Weeks passed. Andrew’s treatments worked, and the day came when the doctor gave him the news—he was cancer-free.
Ecstatic, Andrew rushed to share it with Tommy. But when he arrived, Tommy was unconscious, Sara sitting beside him, tears streaming down her face.
“What happened?” Andrew asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
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Sara wiped her eyes and shook her head. “The doctors said there’s nothing more they can do.”
Andrew stared at her, struggling to process the words. “But… he seemed so happy. He always smiled. I thought he was improving.”
Sara looked at him, her face full of pain. “He didn’t want you to see how sick he was. He wanted to be strong for you. He thought he was a superhero.”
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Andrew’s chest tightened. “I’m so sorry.”
Sara managed a faint smile through her tears. “Don’t be. He said you saved him. These months, you gave him laughter and hope. You made him forget about being sick.”
Andrew shook his head slowly. “No. He’s the one who saved me.”
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He stepped closer and wrapped his arms around her in a gentle hug. She cried quietly against his shoulder, and though Andrew wished he could take her pain away, he knew nothing would ever truly ease it.
That night, Tommy passed away peacefully, surrounded by the love of his mother and the memories he had made.
Andrew sat alone in his room afterward, overwhelmed by the loss. Andrew couldn’t bear the thought of such a bright soul being forgotten.
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Determined, he started a foundation in Tommy’s name to help sick children, ensuring his kindness would live on.
He also stayed in touch with Sara, offering her support in every way he could.
One afternoon, Andrew stood at his ex-wife’s door, holding the painting she had demanded for so long. She opened the door, her mouth ready to hurl accusations, but Andrew silently handed her the painting.
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“I’m not here to argue,” Andrew said, his tone calm as he held out the painting.
His ex-wife frowned, puzzled. “What is this supposed to mean?” she asked.
“Nothing important,” Andrew replied, a small smile forming. “I’m just making sure I keep my superpowers.” Without waiting for a response, he turned and walked away.
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If you enjoyed this story, read this one: Taking care of Mom was hard enough without the tension with my sister. Accusations flew when precious things started disappearing. I thought I knew who was to blame, but the truth shattered my world. Betrayal came from where I least expected, leaving me questioning everything—and everyone—I trusted.
This piece is inspired by stories from the everyday lives of our readers and written by a professional writer. Any resemblance to actual names or locations is purely coincidental. All images are for illustration purposes only. Share your story with us; maybe it will change someone’s life.
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