He hated his wife. Hated her with a quiet fury.
Theyd been together for fifteen years. For fifteen long years, hed seen her every morning, yet it was only during the last year that her habits began to truly get under his skin. One habit in particular grated on him more than any other: she would stretch out her arms, still drowsy in bed, and say, Good morning, sunshine! Its going to be a marvellous day. To most, it would seem a harmless phrase, but her thin hands and her sleepy face now filled him with revulsion.
Shed rise, walk to the window, and stare out for a few moments. Then shed take off her nightdress and head to the bathroom. In the early days of marriage, hed admired her body, awed by her freedom and the ease with which she carried herself. Even now, her figure was graceful, but seeing her undressed sparked anger instead of admiration. Once, he even wanted to push her, just to hurry her along in her morning routine, but forced himself simply to bark impatiently:
Hurry up, Im sick of this!
She refused to let him set her pace, living each day slowly and deliberately, because she knew about his affairknew the name and face of the other woman hed seen for nearly three years now. The sting of betrayal had dulled with time, leaving only a faint feeling of unimportance. She forgave his aggression, indifference, and desperate attempts to relive his youth, but she wouldnt let him disrupt her rhythm of living, savouring every minute.
Thats how she chose to live, ever since she learned she was ill. The illness was eating away at her month by month, and she knew it would soon have her. Her first impulse had been to tell everyone the truth, as if sharing it might ease her burden. But she endured the worst day of reckoning alone with the knowledge, and the next day, she decided to say nothing. As time slipped away, she gained a deep wisdomone able to simply observe and accept.
She sought solace in the village library, a ninety-minute walk away. Every day, she would find herself tucked into a corridor between shelves marked by the elderly librarian as The Mysteries of Life and Death, hunting for a book that might just hold all the answers.
He went to his lovers house. Everything there was bright, warm, and felt like home. Theyd been together three years, and he adored her to the point of obsession: jealous, cruel at times, yet unable to breathe without her near. Today, he arrived with a firm decision: he would divorce his wife. Why make three people miserable? He no longer loved his wifein truth, he despised her. Here, he believed, happiness awaited. He tried to recall the warmth hed once felt for his wife, but nothing came. It was as if she had irritated him from the very first day. Pulling a photo of his wife from his wallet, he tore it into shreds, a ritual sign of his resolve.
They agreed to meet at a restaurantthe same where six months earlier they had celebrated their fifteenth wedding anniversary. She arrived first. He, meanwhile, stopped by the house, turning every drawer for the divorce papers, growing more agitated by the minute.
In one drawer, he spotted a dark blue folder, sealed with tape. He didnt remember seeing it before. Kneeling on the floor, he ripped it open. Expecting perhaps incriminating photographs, instead he found a stack of test results, hospital stamps, medical letters, all in her name. Realisation hit him like a jolt of electricity. Illness! Searching the diagnosis online, the chilling prognosis appeared: 6 to 18 months. Checking the dates, panic set insix months had already passed since the assessment.
After that, memories blurred. All he heard in his head was, 6 to 18 months.
She waited for forty minutes in the restaurant. His phone rang out unanswered. She settled the bill with a crisp twenty-pound note and stepped outside. It was a perfect English autumn daythe sun gentle, the air soft and inviting. What a beautiful world, how precious life isthe sun, the fields, the changing leaves.
For the first time since learning about her illness, self-pity overwhelmed her. She had found the strength to shield her husband, her parents, her friends from the harsh truth, trying to ease their lives even as hers quietly slipped away. Soon, nothing but a memory would remain. She walked through the bustling high street, watching peoples eyes glimmer with hope for winter and the spring beyondhope she would never feel again. The resentment inside swelled, finally bursting forth in a flood of tears.
Back in their living room, he was frantic. For the first time, he felt the brevity of life as something physical. He remembered her as a young woman, the eager spark when they first met, all their early plans. He had loved her thenhow clearly he saw it now. The last fifteen years seemed washed away, with happiness, youth, and life once again in reach.
In the coming weeks, he filled her days with kindness, never leaving her side, living with a depth of love that shocked him. He feared losing her, would have given his life to keep her alive. If anyone had reminded him that, just a month before, hed loathed her and dreamt of separation, hed think, That was someone else.
He saw how it tore at her to say goodbye, how she cried myself to sleep, believing he slept beside her. He realised there is no greater torment than knowing the hour of your own end. Yet he witnessed her fighting for every last breath, clinging even to the most improbable hope.
She died two months later. He lined the path from their cottage to the churchyard with white lilies and roses. He sobbed uncontrollably as her coffin was lowered, feeling hed aged a thousand years.
Returning home, under her pillow, he found a note shed written at New Year: To be happy with Him to the end of my days. Its said wishes made on New Years come trueand perhaps they do, as that same year hed written: To be free.
In the end, everyone received what they thought they wanted. Yet, sometimes, our deepest wishes come at a cost we never imagined. Only in loss do we often see what truly cherishes us, teaching us the real value of love and the fleeting gift of life.
