Pregnant For Her Invalid Ex Husband

Selena’s POV “Please, take the shortcut,” I urged the cab driver, my voice tight with anxiety. “My husband’s in the hospital.” The car jerked as the driver made a sharp turn, but I barely noticed. My mother’s call played over in my mind like a broken record. I sprinted out of the cab the moment we stopped, barely remembering to pay the fare. My feet pounded the sterile hospital floor as I rushed toward his room, ignoring the beeping machines and bustling nurses. “Martins!” I gasped, breathless as I reached his bedside. He turned to me with a lazy smile, one arm awkwardly propped in a cast. “Why are you so sweaty? It’s not a big deal,” he said, shrugging nonchalantly. “See? Just a broken arm.” I blinked at him, my heart squeezing painfully. “No one’s immune to pain. I know you’re hurting,” I whispered, my eyes fixated on the ugly cast. “Selena, I’m fine.” His voice softened, but I wasn’t reassured. He always downplayed his suffering. It was his way of protecting me. “Who did this to you?” I demanded. “Mom said you fell down the stairs, but I know you’re not that clumsy.” “Selena,” he sighed, “I told you, it’s nothing serious. At least I didn’t break my ribs or fall into a coma, right? This? I can handle this.” His attempt at humor only made me want to cry more. “You shouldn’t have to handle anything!” I choked, looking away to hide the tears threatening to spill. “We don’t have to keep doing this. We can leave, Martins. Start fresh, away from all of them.” I sat beside him, my hand trembling as I reached for his. His fingers, rough and scarred from the countless chores he did for my family, closed over mine. “Start over with what?” he asked gently. “You have your degrees, sure. But I don’t want to heap all our problems onto you. You deserve better than that.” I swallowed the lump in my throat. “I don’t care about that. We can figure it out together.” He gave me that small, lopsided smile—the one that always made my heart ache in the best way. “You know it’s not that simple. What about your mom? You love her. And the orphanage… I need to keep sending something back to them, too.” I sighed. He was always so practical, always thinking of everyone but himself. My fingers traced the scars on his hand absentmindedly. “I just… I wish I could do more for you. Stop all this suffering.” My voice wavered as I tried to blink back the tears again. Before he could answer, a nurse came in and told us he was free to go. I quickly wiped my face and stood up, determined to make the rest of the evening better. “How about I treat you to something nice?” I suggested, my voice brighter than I felt. “It’s late, and going back to work isn’t an option now. Let’s get some food.” “That’s too much,” Martins protested. “We should save the money.” “You know how Grandma reacts every time the family money pays for your hospital bills,” I said quietly, and his face darkened for just a moment. “Okay,” he relented, and I squeezed his hand. We strolled to the small street market in Chinatown, where I bought us his favorite cheap eats. For the next hour, we ate and laughed, the weight of reality temporarily forgotten. On the bus ride home, Martins stood protectively behind me, shielding me from the crowded rush-hour passengers. “Thank you,” he murmured from behind me, his breath warm on my ear. “For what?” I teased, leaning back into his warmth. “For tonight. And for everything.” His voice was soft, but there was a depth to it that made my heart ache again. I turned to him, resting my head against his chest. “Don’t thank me. Just… learn to stand up for yourself, Martins. Promise me.” He didn’t answer immediately, and I could feel the weight of his thoughts. “I will,” he said quietly. I made a silent promise to myself then. I would work harder, push further. No matter what my family thought, I would give Martins the happiness he deserved. Even if it meant burning myself out. When we finally reached our stop, I sighed, determined to make a change. “We’ll be happy, Martins. I promise.”