My Husband Has No Hands Novels & Stories

I carefully reached for his hand, but before my fingers could touch him, he quietly moved it away. "I-I know you're going through a lot right now," I began, my voice trembling despite my efforts to remain calm. "Your grandfather's death wasn't easy and I can't even imagine how painful that must be. But please…. don't make decisions when you're not in your right mind." For the first time, my husband looked directly into my eyes, and what I saw made my stomach sink. There was no warmth left in them. It was as if I were a stranger he had just met for the first time.

But what hurt the most were my hands. Fingers that were once long and graceful were now purple and twisted, bones jutting out beneath the skin. These were the hands I was so proud of. The hands that played the cello. The hands my beloved husband let be destroyed. "There's nothing more we can do," the doctor said, shaking his head. "Go see if the family is here." Just as a nurse was about to leave, the door was kicked open. Alex burst in, his face a storm of anger and disbelief.

He was shaking, but he kept his eyes locked on me as he continued, “Aurora, we’re one. From now on, I’ll be your right hand, and you’ll be my left. We’ll never be apart again, okay?” He stared at me, desperate for any reaction. However, I refused to look at him. Still, he forced a smile. “It’s okay. I can wait. Aurora, I’ll spend my whole life making it up to you.” Then came the third strike and the fourth. By the time he stopped, his left hand was ruined, blood dripping off the edge of the table and pooling on the floor. Only then did I finally turn my head and look at him. “Do you think this makes it over? Don’t forget what else you did that night.”

Shortly after our wedding, my husband, Lucas Whitmore, got into a car crash that left him paralyzed. For over forty years, I gave up everything to take care of him. However, it wasn’t until the day he passed away that I discovered the sickening truth. In his will, he left every single cent to his high school crush. I was evicted from the home I’d called mine for decades. Shaking and leaning heavily on my cane, I dragged myself to a lawyer’s office to reclaim my legal share of the estate as his widow. That was when they dropped the second bomb: he had secretly divorced me years ago. Before I could even process the shock, Lucas’ high school crush, Lily Collins, showed up to rub salt in the w

When my wife's boy toy, Bradley Bell, posts on social media about wanting to settle down, she loses her cool. She rushes home—a place she hasn't set foot in for months—and pleads, "Alan, Bradley is throwing a total fit about wanting something official. Let's get a fake divorce. Just move out for a few days, okay? "Don't worry. It's just a fake divorce. You're the only man I'll ever consider my husband." Seeing her desperate expression, I agree. What she doesn't know is that I came to her side through a companion system I was bound to. Once we're divorced and living apart, I'll be destined to vanish from this world forever, and she'll never see me again.

During a parent-child activity at kindergarten, the teacher asks the children to draw what they want to be when they grow up. The other kids draw princesses, dinosaurs, and astronauts, but my five-year-old son, Evan Jepsen, draws a cell phone. Across its screen, he's written a message in crooked letters. "Incoming call from Annette." "Why do you want to be a phone?" the teacher asks, puzzled. "Because Daddy loves his phone more than anything," Evan replies earnestly. "When Mommy asks him to come to dinner, he gets annoyed. But whenever Annette calls, he smiles right away." The classroom falls silent, and I stand frozen in place. "Once, Mommy had a fever of 102°F, but Daddy said he

Raising herself onto all fours, she let herself sway above him, and then, softly, she murmured, "So, husband? You may only use one hand.Nothing else." With a groan that sounded as if it were torn from his throat, he reached for her, his hand large enough to clasp her whole breast. "Wife, you are clearly enjoying this torture. Please," he gasped, his body jerking as he squeezed her. "Please? Both hands?" he pleaded.

His lips curl into a sly grin. “HEY! PERVERT!” His low chuckle vibrates in the silence, teasing and dangerous, while my whole body trembles with heat. And yet… deep inside, I can’t deny — I find it thrilling. Even though Baekhoon’s fingers are delicate, almost too beautiful, his hands still carry the strength of a man. It’s not that he doesn’t have an Adam’s apple — it’s just not visible. Women have them too, hidden beneath the skin. Some even show. I just never expected my husband to be one of those rare men without one.

"Thank you, Adam. You don’t know what this means to me." Her fingers trembled as she held my hand, her grip weak but filled with gratitude. I sat there, overwhelmed, the weight of her request pressing down on me. I held Eleanor’s hand, her fingers cold and frail in mine, the weight of her fragile grasp tightening around my heart. "I'll do my best for you, Eleanor," I murmured, my voice thick with emotion. "I'll try to be a good husband, a good father."

I wasn't walking in a French restaurant at the time; I went there because your husband had texted me. He requested me to assist you because he knew he couldn't help you with his hands. So he grabbed my hand.