I noticed a barcode on my husband’s back, expecting it to be a clue to something mundane or perhaps a sign of betrayal. But when I scanned it, I discovered a painful truth.

I felt like Daniel was slipping away from me. We’d just found out I was pregnant with our first child, and I hoped this would bring us closer, make him want to be home more. But he was so distant. Always at work late, leaving on one business trip after another.

“Daniel,” I would say, “can we talk tonight? Catch up?”

He’d look at me with tired eyes and give a weak smile. “I’d love to, but it’s been so busy, you know.”

Busy. Always “busy.” I missed him. I missed us. Sometimes, I would lie awake at night next to him, staring at the ceiling, wondering if I had done something wrong. I wondered if he still wanted this. If he still wanted to be with me.

One evening, after a week-long trip, Daniel came home looking more exhausted than ever. He barely said “Hey,” dropped his bag, and went straight to the shower. I had gotten used to him shutting me out, but that night felt different.

Something was gnawing at me. I felt uneasy, like there was something he wasn’t telling me, something just out of reach.

When he finally lay down, he turned his back to me and fell asleep almost instantly. I lay there for a few minutes, listening to his breathing. Then, I noticed a faint mark on his back, subtle but clear. I leaned in to look closer. It was a barcode.

“A… barcode?” I whispered to myself, puzzled.

I remembered a video I had seen recently. In it, a woman found out her husband was cheating when the mistress secretly tattooed a barcode on him as a mark. The thought twisted my stomach.

No, it couldn’t be. Daniel wouldn’t do that… But then, why was he so distant? And this barcode? It felt like a sign, screaming at me to pay attention. My hands shook as I picked up my phone, hesitating.

I took a deep breath and opened the barcode scanning app on my phone, pointing it at the faint mark on his back. The scanner beeped, and a link appeared on the screen. As it loaded, my hands were sweaty, and I could barely breathe. I braced myself for a photo, a message, some evidence to confirm my worst fears.

Instead, a number appeared on the screen with a short description: “Call me ASAP. He only has a few months.”

I stared at the phone, feeling a chilling numbness, like the blood had drained from my veins. Only a few months? What did that mean?

Not knowing what else to do, I quietly left the room and called the number. My hands were trembling so much that I could barely hold the phone.

A woman answered, her tone calm and professional. “Dr. Popescu speaking. How can I help you?”

“I… I scanned a barcode on my husband’s back. It led me to this number. It said… it said something about him, that he only has a few months left.”

There was a pause. Then she spoke, her voice gentle. “You must be Daniel’s wife. I’m sorry you had to find out this way.”

My knees went weak, and I leaned against the wall for support. “What does that mean? Is… is he sick?”

“Yes,” she replied softly. “Daniel came to us a few months ago. He has stage-four pancreatic cancer.”

I was speechless, struggling to process what she had just told me. “Cancer? But… why didn’t he tell me?”

Dr. Popescu took a breath. “He wanted to spare you the worry, especially since you’re pregnant. He said he wanted you to be happy.”

A tear rolled down my cheek. “Then why… why would you put a barcode on his back?”

Her voice grew even softer. “I normally wouldn’t do this, but… I lost my husband to cancer. He kept everything a secret until it was too late, and I never got the chance to say goodbye. I didn’t want you to go through that, to lose time with Daniel without knowing. I thought that if you found out… you could face it together, even if he couldn’t tell you.”

I felt both anger and sadness at once. “So, you did this without him knowing?”

“Yes,” she admitted, regret in her voice. “I saw how afraid he was to tell you, so I placed a temporary tattoo on him, disguising it as a vaccination spot. He wanted you to know, but he couldn’t find the words. I thought… maybe this way, you would discover it yourself.”

I covered my mouth, holding back a sob, trying to process everything. The room spun, and I felt a deep pain in my soul, one that was both loss and love.

I stood there, holding the phone, feeling as though a wave of sorrow had washed over me. My heart pounded, and Dr. Popescu’s words echoed in my mind.

For a moment, anger surfaced. Why didn’t he tell me? Didn’t he love me enough to trust me? But the anger quickly faded, replaced by a deep emptiness. I knew he wanted to protect both me and our unborn child. But how could he think I’d want this? To go on without knowing, believing we had a future, when he knew we didn’t?

The next morning, I woke up early, watching as the dawn light filled the room. Daniel lay beside me, peaceful. I was struck by a wave of sadness, knowing that each morning we had left was a gift. I leaned down and kissed his forehead, waking him gently.

“Hey,” he murmured, barely awake. “You’re up early.”

“I was thinking,” I said with a smile, “how about a weekend away, just the two of us? We deserve it.”

He looked at me, a little surprised. “A weekend? Now? Are you sure? I mean, with everything going on…”

“Yes, now,” I interrupted, with a calm voice. “We need this. Both of us.”

That weekend, we went to a cabin by a lake where we had been years ago, early in our marriage. The place was as warm and comforting as I remembered, surrounded by tall pines.

We spent hours walking along the shore, our hands entwined, talking about anything and everything. At night, we lay under the stars, watching them sparkle in the clear sky, his arm around me, and for a few moments, everything felt perfect.

A few days after we returned, I suggested we finally paint the nursery. “I would have loved to,” he said with a shy smile, “but I thought we had more time.” His words hit me, but I ignored them and handed him a brush.

Together, we painted the walls a soft blue, laughing when we left paint marks on each other’s faces, ending up sitting on the floor, covered in paint and tired. When we finished, he stopped and looked at the freshly painted walls and the tiny crib by the window.

He hugged me tightly, holding me so close I could feel his heartbeat. His shoulders shook, and his face buried in my hair. I held him, feeling his silent tears, each one filling my heart a little more.

His health declined. One morning, he couldn’t lift his head from the pillow. I sat beside him, holding his hand, cradling him, as he struggled to open his eyes.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered, his voice hoarse, gripping my hand more weakly. “I wanted to be here… longer.”

I wiped a tear from his cheek. “You’ve done enough, Daniel. You’ve given us everything.” I leaned down and rested my forehead on his. “Rest, my love.”

He managed a faint smile, his eyes full of warmth and love. “Thank you… for making these days the best of my life.”

And then, slowly, his hand slipped from mine, and he was gone.

At his funeral, I stood quietly, surrounded by friends and family, their voices blending around me. My hand rested on my growing belly, and I felt a tiny kick. I closed my eyes, imagining his hand there, sharing the moment. “Daddy was the best man,” I whispered, my voice thick with tears. “He loved us so much, more than we will ever know.”

As people came and went, offering condolences, I felt the sharp ache of his absence. But in that pain, I found a kind of comfort, a memory of all he had given me, every precious moment we had shared.

I knew that, even though he was no longer here, his love would always be with us. It would live on in our child, in every memory we had made, in every heartbeat.

And holding onto those memories, I whispered, “I’ll make sure our baby knows you. I promise.”