Once upon a time, a wealthy English king had four wives. His favorite was the fourth—young, charming, and ever so spoiled. He lavished her with silk gowns, jewels from Bond Street, and the finest teas from Harrods. She was his pride and joy, always perched on a velvet cushion, cooing at his every word.
His third wife was a dazzling beauty, the sort who turned heads at Royal Ascot. He adored showing her off during his travels—Paris, Rome, even a quick jaunt to the Riviera—but deep down, he fretted she might one day run off with a dashing duke or a rogue poet.
The second wife? Sharp as a tack, that one. She was his confidante, the one who smoothed over scandals at Parliament and handled squabbles with the neighboring kingdoms. Whenever trouble arose—be it a tax revolt or a poorly timed jest at a banquet—she was there, cool as cucumber, sorting it all out.
Then there was the first wife. A proper, sensible sort, inherited from his late elder brother. She managed the estates, balanced the ledgers, and ensured the kingdom never ran short of coin. Loyal to a fault, though the king scarcely gave her a passing thought.
One day, the king fell gravely ill. Staring at his gilded ceiling, he sighed. “Four wives, yet when I die, I go alone.” He turned to his beloved fourth.
“My darling, I’ve given you everything—pearls, palaces, the works. Now that I’m fading, will you follow me into the great beyond?”
“Absolutely not,” she scoffed, flouncing out without so much as a backward glance. The king’s heart sank like a lead balloon.
Next, he tried the third wife. “My dearest, I’ve paraded you across continents. Won’t you join me in the hereafter?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” she laughed. “Life’s too splendid! I’ll remarry before your crown’s even cold.”
His chest ached worse than a bad case of indigestion. Desperate, he turned to the second wife.
“You’ve always been my rock. Surely you’ll come with me?”
“Terribly sorry, old chap,” she said gently. “Best I can do is arrange a first-rate funeral.”
The words hit him like a runaway carriage. Then, a quiet voice spoke:
“I’ll go with you. All the way.”
He turned—there stood his first wife, weary but steadfast. Tears welled in his eyes. “I should’ve appreciated you more,” he whispered.
We all have four “wives.” The fourth is our body—no matter how much we primp and pamper it, it deserts us the moment we expire. The third is our career, our wealth, our social standing—impressive, yet it all goes to someone else when we’re gone. The second is family and friends—they’ll walk us to the grave, but no further.
And the first? That’s the soul. The bit we ignore while chasing promotions, parties, and posh cars. Yet it’s the only thing that sticks with us, through thick and thin. Tend to it, nurture it, and—well, that’s the real legacy, isn’t it?
