Married to a Man Who Couldn’t Bear My Touch

Everyone knew my husband, Max Kennedy, was allergic to women, including me. On our wedding day, when I leaned in with a shy smile to kiss the corner of his lips, he kicked me off the bed.

His face turned pale, and he began vomiting uncontrollably. That night, he moved into the study.

In five years of marriage, we never shared a bed. I lived like a virus in my own home.

Whenever we went out, I had to keep at least two meters between us, and even indoors, I covered myself in raincoats and gloves, terrified that a single touch might harm him.

Then one day, while I was accompanying a deaf client on a cliff bungee jump, Max slipped and almost fell. I instinctively reached out to grab him, but he pushed me instead.

Hanging helplessly from the edge, I looked up and saw him holding the frightened girl beside him, his voice gentle and comforting.

“Don’t be afraid, I’m here.”

In that moment, I finally understood that when someone truly loved another, they could endure anything.

So I decided to grant them their wish.

——

Cold wind roared across the cliff. The client panicked and clutched my hand, but her grip was weakening fast.

In desperation, I looked toward Max and shouted with all the strength I had left, “Max! Pull me up! She can’t hold on much longer!”

Max gently released the woman in his arms and looked down at me. His eyes paused on my bleeding arm and bare fingers, and he frowned slightly. His voice came out calm, almost distant.

“There’s water below. From this height, you won’t die. Wait for the rescue team.”

That was the last thing I heard before I fell. The client’s strength gave out completely, and her hand slipped away.

The freezing lake hit me like a wall, and for a moment, everything went black. Dirty water filled my lungs and burned my chest, but even that pain wasn’t as unbearable as his words.

When they finally pulled me out, the doctor said I had swallowed too much water, my lungs were badly infected, and I needed urgent treatment.

But the person who came to sign the papers wasn’t Max; it was his assistant.

He looked at my pale face and said in a scolding tone, “Madam, do you realize that because of your impulsive behavior, President Kennedy almost missed his international conference tonight?”

At that moment, it felt as if I had fallen into the freezing lake again. My heart turned cold, so cold it hurt.

The baby in my belly couldn’t be saved either. It had been a test-tube baby, one I had begged Max for, after enduring hundreds of injections, and because of his indifference, it was gone forever.

On the third day of my hospital stay, Max finally came. He sat in the chair with his legs crossed, his face showing not a hint of concern, and began to criticize me.

“Why didn’t you wear gloves that day? You know I’m allergic to women. Good intentions that cause harm are just foolishness.”

His eyes shifted to the miscarriage report beside me, calm and distant.

“If the child was that weak, it only means he wasn’t fit to survive in this world. It’s better that he’s gone.”

My hands gripped the white bedsheet so tightly that it wrinkled beneath my fingers. He had never looked forward to this child; the only one who truly cared was me.

I swallowed the bitterness in my throat and asked quietly, “Why did you hold that sign language interpreter? Weren’t you afraid of being allergic?”

For a moment, Max froze, and a flicker of emotion passed through his usually calm eyes.

“She was really scared at the time. I forgot.”

“She was on her period and couldn’t stand the cold. She was helping me, so I couldn’t just let her fall.”

A wave of irony filled my chest. During our second year of marriage, I had severe cramps and a high fever.

The housekeeper reminded Max to use a wet towel to help me cool down. But when my hand accidentally brushed his, he poured the entire basin of cold water over me, and then rushed to the bathroom to wash his hands and vomit.