**A Diary Entry**
I despised my wife. We had spent fifteen years together, and for the last year, every little habit of hers had gnawed at me. The worst was how shed stretch her arms in bed each morning, still half-asleep, and murmur, *”Good morning, sunshine! Today will be wonderful.”* A harmless phrase, but her thin arms and puffy face filled me with disgust.
Shed rise, walk to the window, and gaze into the distance for a few seconds before slipping off her nightgown and heading to the bathroom. Once, in the early days, Id adored her bodyher carefree spirit that sometimes crossed into impropriety. Now, though her figure was still slim, the sight of her irritated me. Once, I nearly shoved her just to hurry her along but clenched my fists and snapped, *”Hurry up, Ive had enough!”*
She never rushed through life. She knew about my affairhad even known the girl Id been seeing for three years. Time buried the wounds to her pride, leaving only a quiet ache of insignificance. She forgave my aggression, my indifference, my desperate grasp at lost youth. But she refused to let anyone steal her peaceshe lived deliberately, cherishing each moment.
She had made that choice the day she learned she was ill. The disease gnawed at her month by month, and soon, it would win. At first, she wanted to tell everyoneshare the burden, ease the weight. But she endured the hardest days alone, facing the end in silence. Her life ebbed away, yet with each passing day, she grew wiser, like an observer of her own fate.
She found solace in a tiny libraryan hour-and-a-half journey each daywhere shed wander the narrow aisles beneath a sign the elderly librarian had labeled *”Secrets of Life and Death.”* She searched for a book that might answer all her questions.
Meanwhile, I went to my lover. Everything there was bright, warm, familiar. For three years, Id “loved” her in a twisted wayjealous, guilty, suffocating whenever we were apart. Today, I decided: *Im leaving my wife.* Why torment all three of us? I didnt love herI hated her. A new happiness awaited. I pulled my wifes photo from my wallet and tore it to shreds, as if that sealed my resolve.
We agreed to meet at the restaurant where wed celebrated our fifteenth anniversary six months earlier. She arrived first. Id stopped home beforehand, rummaging through drawers for divorce papers. In one, I found a dark blue folder Id never seen. I tore off the tape, expecting blackmailbut instead, pages of medical reports spilled out, all stamped with her name and initials.
The realization struck like lightning. Cold sweat prickled my neck. *She was ill.* I Googled the diagnosis. A single line glared back: *”Six to eighteen months.”* The dates showed shed known for half a year already. My mind went numb. *Six to eighteen months.*
Autumn was beautifulthe sun gentle, warming the soul. *”What a strange, wonderful life,”* she thought. For the first time since her diagnosis, she pitied herself.
She walked, watching people rejoicewinter was coming, then spring. Shed never feel that joy again. Resentment swelled inside her until tears spilled over.
I paced the house, struck for the first time by lifes fragility. I remembered her youngwhen wed just married, full of hope. I *had* loved her once. Now, it all felt lost: fifteen years, gone like theyd never existed. As if the future still held everythinghappiness, youth, life.
In those final days, I doted on her, never leaving her side, and felt an odd sort of joy. I feared losing her, wouldve given my life to keep her. If someone had reminded me that just a month earlier, Id hated her and wanted a divorce, Id have said, *”That wasnt me.”*
I watched her struggle to let go, saw her cry at night, thinking I slept. There was no crueler sentence than knowing your own end. I saw her cling to the faintest, stubborn hope.
She died two months later. I lined the path from our house to the cemetery with flowers. Sobbed like a child as they lowered the coffin. Aged a decade in weeks.
At home, under her pillow, I found a notea New Years wish shed scribbled: *”To be happy with him until the end.”* They say those wishes come true. Maybe they do, because that same year, I wrote: *”To be free.”*
In the end, we each got what we truly wantedas if it had all been by our own design.
