Harlan Covington

I Never Took What Wasn’t Mine: A Story of Jealousy, Kindness, and Second Chances in the Lives of Martha, Nastya, and Max, from School Days Through Heartbreak, Addiction, and New Beginnings

I HAVE NEVER TAKEN WHAT WASNT MINE In those distant school days, Mary found herself both scorning and

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A Life Put Right: “Lada, I forbid you from speaking to your sister and her family! They’ve got their life, we’ve got ours. Have you been ringing Natasha again? Complaining about me? I warned you.” Bogdan gripped my shoulder painfully. As usual in these arguments, I retreated to the kitchen, fighting back bitter tears. I’d never once complained to my sister about my home life; we simply talked, especially about our aging parents. But Bogdan loathed Natasha—her family had peace and plenty, unlike ours… When I married Bogdan, I was the happiest girl in all of England. He swept me off my feet, and I didn’t care that he was a head shorter than me, or that his mother arrived at our wedding barely able to stand. Only later did I learn she was a longtime alcoholic… Blinded by love, I saw no evil—but after a year, I began to doubt my promised bliss. Bogdan drank heavily, stumbling home drunk, then came a string of affairs. I worked as an NHS nurse—hardly a generous wage. Bogdan preferred spending time with his drinking buddies and provided nothing for me. Once, I’d dreamed of children; now I poured my love into a pedigree cat. The thought of having children with my drunken husband no longer crossed my mind, even though I still loved Bogdan. “Lada, you silly thing! Look at all those blokes eyeing you, but you stay glued to your little leprechaun! What do you see in him? Always covered in bruises, thinking no one notices beneath that concealer? Leave him before his anger gets you killed.” That was my friend—the colleague who always tried to save me. Yes, Bogdan often gave in to unprovoked rages. Once, he locked me in our flat and took the key. After that, I lived in terror. My soul shrank, heart pounded whenever I heard the key in the lock. I imagined he blamed me for not giving him a child, for being a ‘bad’ wife. So, I never fought back—just took the pain, the insults, the mockery… Why did I still love Bogdan? I remembered his mother, a real witch, telling me: “Lada, do as your husband says. Love him with all your heart—forget your family, your friends, they’ll only lead you astray.” So, I did—I gave up everything for Bogdan. I even liked it when he begged forgiveness, knelt and kissed my feet. Make-ups were sickly-sweet, magical, our bed strewn with roses. I knew full well he pinched them from the garden of a mate’s wife—a fellow drunk. The wives would swoon over their stolen roses and forgive. Most likely, I’d have stayed a slave to Bogdan for life, rebuilding my fantasy heaven from broken pieces, had fate not intervened. “Let Bogdan go,” an unknown woman said to me once. “I’ve got his son—you’re barren. Just let him go for my child’s happiness.” I snapped, “Get out of here, now.” Bogdan tried to deny it, but when I demanded he swear the boy wasn’t his, he could only stay silent. And I understood everything… “Lada, you never look happy. Trouble at home?” my boss, the hospital director, unexpectedly asked. “Everything’s fine,” I mumbled, embarrassed. “It’s good to have everything in order—then life’s wonderful,” he said with a mysterious smile. The director, Dr. Herman Lewis, was single again after a rocky marriage; he wasn’t striking, but up close, something about him set my heart fluttering—a heady scent, or maybe it was just kindness. His simple words unsettled me: “It’s good when everything is in order.” Me—my life was a mess. But time doesn’t wait for anyone to sort themselves out… So, I left Bogdan, went home to my parents. “Did he throw you out?” Mum asked. “No, I’ll explain later,” I lied—too ashamed of my marriage. Later, Bogdan’s mother rang and screamed curses, but I’d straightened my back and drawn a deep breath. Thanks, Dr. Lewis… Bogdan stalked and threatened me, not realising he’d lost all control over my life: “Don’t waste your time, Bogdan. Take care of your son. I’ve turned our page,” I told him calmly. Finally, I returned to my sister Natasha and our parents. I became myself again, not someone else’s puppet. “You’re a different woman, Lada. Glowing, happy—a true bride,” my friend smiled. Then Dr. Herman Lewis proposed: “Lada, marry me! I promise, you won’t regret it. Only one thing—just call me ‘Herman’ at home.” “But do you even love me, Herman?” He smiled and kissed my hand. “Sorry, I forgot women need words. Yes—I probably love you, but I trust actions more.” I said yes—with more joy than I’d ever known. …Ten years have flown by. Every day Herman proves his love—not with empty words, but with care and protection. We never had children together—perhaps I really was ‘barren’. But Herman never blamed or hurt me. “Lada,” he’d say, “just means we’re meant to be together—just us.” His daughter gave us a granddaughter, little Sasha—our beloved girl. And as for Bogdan, he drank himself to death before turning fifty. His mother shoots me evil looks if we meet at the shops, but her hateful arrows melt away in thin air. I just feel sorry for her. As for us, well—everything is in order. Life is beautiful.

LIFE IN ORDER “Charlotte, I forbid you to speak with your sister and her family! They have their

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Bittersweet Bliss: Why Doesn’t This Lovely Young Woman Suit You? – Denis’s Forty Years of Searching for Love, His Mother’s Worries, Failed Romances, a Chance Meeting on a Train, and the Unexpected Joy and Trials of Raising a Child With Down Syndrome

BITTERSWEET HAPPINESS What have you got against that young lady? Shes a lovely girlmodest, tidy, smart

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My True Wife – “How have you managed to stay married to the same woman for so many years? What’s your secret?” my brother would ask every time he visited. “Love and endless patience. That’s all there is to it,” I’d always reply. “That’s not for me! I love all women. Every woman is a mystery, and I have no interest in living with a book I’ve already read,” he’d smirk. My younger brother Peter married at eighteen; his bride, Anna, was ten years his senior. Sweet Anna loved Peter with her whole heart, but Peter only amused himself with her. Anna settled into our crowded family home, where seven relatives lived. She gave birth to their son, Matthew, feeling sure that happiness was within her grasp. The young couple was given a tiny room of their own. Anna cherished her precious collection of porcelain figurines—ten rare pieces, lovingly displayed on an old dresser. Our large family knew how much these delicate figures meant to her. Anna would often admire them, lost in thought. At that time, I myself was considering starting a family and was searching for that one special woman. In the end, my wish came true; my wife and I have been happily married for over fifty years. Peter lived with Anna for ten years. Anna had little to boast of in this marriage; she tried to be a good wife and loved her husband and son deeply—obedient, gentle, and easygoing. But Peter wanted something more. One evening, Peter came home drunk and started picking on Anna, joking coarsely and grabbing her by the arms. Sensing trouble, Anna quietly left the room with little Matthew. Suddenly, a terrible crash echoed from inside. Anna instinctively knew what it was—the sound of her treasured figurines smashing. Dashing back, she saw her beloved collection shattered on the floor. Only one figurine had survived. Anna picked it up and kissed it quietly, her eyes brimming with tears. She said nothing. A crack formed in their marriage that night. From then on, Anna seemed to live outside the family in her mind. Though she did her duties and was a model wife and homemaker, it was all without passion, just going through the motions. Peter began drinking more often, and soon started bringing home crude new friends—reckless women and shady characters. Anna suspected everything, but withdrew in silence, becoming distant and lost. Peter stopped coming home altogether, abandoning his family. Anna understood that, as the saying goes, you can’t catch the wind in the field. Eventually, Anna and Peter divorced quietly, without argument or blame. Anna took Matthew and left for her hometown. The one surviving figurine was left behind as a memory. Peter didn’t waste time mourning. He began living wild and free, without rules or commitments. He fell easily in and out of love, and was married and divorced three times. He loved drinking himself unconscious. Despite all this, Peter was a top economist at a London university—he even co-authored a well-known textbook and was seen as having a brilliant future until alcohol and his chaotic lifestyle undid it all. Eventually, our family believed Peter had settled down after marrying a “spectacular” woman with a seventeen-year-old son. At their modest wedding, it was obvious that Peter and his new stepson would never get along. The inevitable happened—after five years and several violent quarrels, Peter and his wife parted ways. Then more fleeting lovers circled Peter—Lisa, Natalie, Sophie. He loved them all, swept up in each affair as if it would last forever. But fate had its own plans. At fifty-three, Peter was diagnosed with a terminal illness. By then, none of his beloved women remained; they had all quietly slipped away. My sisters and I cared for Peter in his final days. “Simon, there’s a suitcase under my bed. Hand it to me,” Peter struggled to speak. Under the bed, I found a dusty suitcase. When I opened it, I was shocked—it was full of porcelain figurines, each carefully wrapped in a soft cloth. “These… I collected for Anna. I’ve never forgotten her silent reproach the day her collection was smashed. She put up with so much from me. You remember all those work trips across the country? I bought figurines everywhere I went. There’s a false bottom in the suitcase—take the money you’ll find there, too. Give it all to my true wife. Ask her to forgive me. We’ll never meet again. Simon, you must promise you’ll bring these to Anna.” Peter turned away. “I promise, Peter. I’ll do it,” my voice caught in my throat. I knew my brother was slipping away for good. “You’ll find Anna’s address under my pillow,” Peter whispered. He never turned to face me again. Anna still lived in her childhood town; Matthew was unwell with a mysterious illness. Doctors shrugged and suggested going to Europe for help—something I learned from a letter Anna had written, which was under Peter’s pillow. As it turned out, Anna had always kept in touch with her ex-husband, though only by letter—Peter never replied. After Peter’s funeral, I set out to fulfill his last wish. Anna met me at a quiet train station and hugged me warmly: “Oh, Simon, you and Peter look so alike—two peas in a pod!” I handed her the suitcase and gently apologized, as Peter had asked: “Anna, forgive your wayward husband. Here’s something from Peter—money, and a bit more. You’ll see when you get home. Remember, you were always Peter’s true wife. Never forget that.” We parted for good. Later, I received a single letter from Anna: “Simon, thank you and Peter for everything. I’m grateful to God that Peter was part of my life. Matthew and I sold the figurines to a true collector; I couldn’t bear to look at them—every one had passed through Peter’s hands. It’s sad he left us so soon. With the money, we were able to move to Canada, where my sister had long invited us. I had nothing keeping me at home anymore. My only hope had been that Peter would call for us. He never did… But I am happy he still thought of me as his true wife. That means his feelings never died entirely. By the way, Matthew is doing much better here—he really likes it. Goodbye.” No return address…

DEAR WIFE How do you manage to live so long with the same wife? Whats your secret? My brother would always

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Worn Down by My Mother-in-Law and Wife That Evening, the Most Silent and Patient Man in Our Village, Steven Evans, Came to See Me—A Man as Steadfast as Iron Nails, With Broad Calloused Hands and Centuries of Quiet in His Eyes; Known for His Reluctance to Complain Yet Always the First to Lend a Hand, He Stood in My Small Local Surgery, Shoulders Slumped, Ushanka Gripped in Muddy Hands, and When He Finally Spoke, His Voice Broke with the Weariness of a Husband Pushed to the Edge by Years of Unkindness From Wife and Mother-in-Law, Until With One Tear, One Quiet Confession—“I’m Leaving, Mrs. Simmons. I Can’t Do This Anymore. I Have Nothing Left”—It Became Clear the Real Illness Was a Soul Worn Thin by Indifference, and Its Only Cure Might Just Be a Kind Word, a Cup of Tea, and Learning That the Greatest Comfort Is Belonging—Not Just as a Pair of Strong Hands, But as Someone Who Is Truly Needed and Loved at Home.

Diary entry 12th November Some evenings, the smallest things can leave the deepest marks on your heart.

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Bitterness at the Bottom of My Soul “The orphanage has missed you for years! Get out of our family!” I screamed with a voice on the verge of breaking. The target of my utter fury was my cousin, Danny. Dear God, how I adored him as a child—wheat-blond hair, cornflower-blue eyes, a cheerful spirit. That was Danny all over. The whole family often gathered for festive meals. Of all my cousins, I singled out Danny. He could twist words as deftly as a lacemaker, and he drew with real talent. On a good night, he’d dash off five or six lovely sketches in pencil. I’d stare, entranced, and quietly stash away his drawings in my writing desk, cherishing his art. Danny was two years older than me. When he was fourteen, his mum—my father’s little sister—died suddenly. She just didn’t wake up one morning. The question arose: what to do with Danny? We tried his dad, but it wasn’t simple. His parents had long divorced, and his dad had a new family and refused to upset their happy course. Everyone else just shrugged and muttered about having their own lives. Family in the daylight, but after sunset, nowhere to be found. So, with two children of their own, my parents became Danny’s legal guardians. At first, I was thrilled he’d live with us. However… On his very first day in our house, Danny’s behaviour unsettled me. Mum, wanting to comfort the orphan, asked, “Is there anything you’d like, Danny? Don’t be shy.” Instantly, he replied, “A toy train set.” For the eighties, it was wildly expensive. I was shocked—your mum just died, your world collapsed, yet all you want is a train set? But my parents bought it at once. Then came, “Buy me a tape recorder, jeans, a branded jacket…” Expensive, hard-to-get things. My parents stretched to grant his wishes, denying themselves and us; my brother and I kept quiet and tried to understand. At sixteen, Danny discovered girls. Turned out, my dear cousin was rather a Don Juan—and then he started hitting on me, his own cousin! Fortunately, I was tough and could fend him off, but we fought—physically and emotionally. I cried for hours. I never told my parents; kids rarely voice such personal pain. When I rejected him, Danny swiftly moved on to my friends, who actively competed for his favour. And then Danny started stealing. Blatantly. I’d been saving pocket money to buy presents for my parents—one day my piggybank was simply empty! Danny denied everything, stone-faced, not a blush of guilt. My soul was torn in two—how could he, living under our roof, steal from us? Danny, like a wrecking ball, shattered our family’s harmony. I stewed, resentful, as he genuinely saw nothing wrong—he believed the world owed him. And eventually I yelled at him, for all I was worth: “Get out of our family!” I lashed out at him like a storm, saying more than I could possibly recall. Mum barely managed to calm me. Since then, Danny no longer existed for me—I ignored him completely. Later I learned, other relatives knew just what kind of person Danny was—they all lived close by and had seen it all; our family lived farther away and hadn’t known. Even Danny’s teachers warned my parents: “He’ll be nothing but trouble—even damage your own children.” In his new school, a girl named Kate fell head over heels for him. She married Danny right after school, had a daughter, and patiently endured his antics, lies, endless affairs. The saying “double the trouble when you marry off” fit her perfectly. She gave him unwavering love that, somehow, Danny never deserved. Danny was later called up for National Service, stationed in Yorkshire. There, he set up “another” family. Somehow, during his leaves, he got involved, and after demob, had a son up north. Kate, undaunted, tracked him down and brought him back home to London by hook or by crook. My parents never heard a single thank you from Danny. Not that they expected it. Today Daniel Evans is 60, devoted churchgoer, five lovely grandchildren with Kate. All seems well, yet the bitterness from our relationship with him lingers… And I still can’t bring myself to share honey with him.

BITTERNESS AT THE BOTTOM OF THE SOUL You belong in a childrens home! Get out of our family!

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Postage Stamps and Broken Vows: When Ilya Left Katya, Love, Revenge, and Life’s Unexpected Passions Unfold in a Tale of Family, Heartbreak, and Second Chances

A POSTAGE STAMP Olivers left Emma, Mum sighs heavily. What do you mean? I ask, confused. I dont understand

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When a Husband Is Worth More Than Bitter Grievances “Igor, that was the last straw! We’re getting a divorce. Don’t bother dropping to your knees – it won’t work this time!” I put a firm full stop on our marriage. Of course, Igor didn’t believe me. My husband assumed it would play out like always: he’d kneel, apologise, buy another ring, and I’d forgive. It had happened before. But this time I was determined to break the bonds of matrimony for good. My fingers, loaded down with rings, were empty of happiness. Igor was constantly and heavily hitting the bottle. …And yet, it all began so romantically. My first husband, Edward, went missing in the 90s. Life was frightening back then. He was a difficult man who picked fights. As they say, “the eyes of an eagle, the wings of a mosquito”– all show, little strength. If things weren’t to his liking, he’d throw a fit. I’m sure Edward got caught up in some sort of trouble. No word was ever heard. I was left with two daughters: Lizzie, five, and Rose, just two. Five years passed after his mysterious disappearance. I nearly lost my mind. I had loved Edward desperately, despite his temper. We’d been inseparable, two halves of a whole. I’d decided life was over: I would just raise my girls. Gave up on myself. Those years were harsh. I worked in a factory, paid in irons instead of wages. I had to sell them for food. On winter weekends, standing half-frozen at the market, a man approached me out of pity. “Cold, miss?” he asked gently. “How could you tell?” I tried to joke, though I was frozen through. Yet, his presence felt warm. He offered to help carry my unsold irons and suggested a cafe to warm up. I agreed, desperate not only from the cold but a deeper chill inside. We never made it to the cafe. I dragged him close to my house, left him with my things, and rushed to get my girls from nursery. When we returned, he waited as promised. His name was Igor. I invited him in for tea, and over cups and conversation, he offered me a job with better pay than a year’s worth of factory irons. He was in the midst of a divorce, with a son from his first marriage. Soon, we married and he adopted my girls. Life was good. We bought a four-bedroom flat, filled it with expensive furniture and gadgets, built a summer house, and had seaside holidays every year. Bliss. …For seven cloudless years. Then, having achieved comfort, Igor started to drink. At first, I dismissed it – he worked hard and needed to relax. But drinking became daily, then at work. Pleas fell on deaf ears. I’m a risk-taker. To distract Igor, I decided to have his child – at thirty-nine. My friends laughed but understood. “Go for it, Tanya! Maybe we’ll all become mums again at forty!” they joked. I always said: Better to have a child and never regret it, than not and wonder forever. Our twins were born, bringing our daughters to four, but Igor didn’t stop drinking. I took a wild chance: we moved to the country, started a farm, opened a cafe. Igor became a hunter, out in the woods, shotgun in hand. Things trundled along, until one night when, drunken out of his mind, Igor smashed everything, grabbed his shotgun, and fired into the ceiling. I fled with the girls to the neighbours in terror. Later, seeing the devastation, I gathered our things and went to my mother’s. She said, “What can you do? Every marriage has its troubles. Go back, it’ll pass.” Mum always said: Better to grit your teeth for a handsome husband. A few days later Igor showed up. That’s when I drew the line. He remembered nothing, thought I was making it up. But I was done. We sold the cafe for pennies, hurriedly left for a nearby village, squeezing into a tiny house. The older girls started work and soon married. The twins were still at school. They still loved Igor, kept in touch with him. Through them he begged me to come back; they insisted he’d changed. “Think of yourself! You’re not 25 anymore!” But I held firm – I wanted peace, not drama. …Two years passed. Loneliness gnawed at me. I pawned all my rings for money, couldn’t buy any back. I thought, and remembered. Igor had loved all four daughters, he always cared for me, never failed to apologise. We’d been a good family; you can’t measure happiness by another’s life. In time, even the older girls stopped coming by – only calls now. Youth moves on. Soon my twins would fly the nest, and I’d be alone. So, I had the twins ask Igor about his life – maybe there was another woman? But no: he worked in another city, off drink, single. He left them his address, just in case. One way or another, we’ve now been back together for five years. I did say – I’m a bit of a gambler…

A HUSBAND IS WORTH MORE THAN BITTER GRUDGES “Peter, that’s it! This was the last straw. We’

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A Christmas Eve Miracle: How Dad Forgot the Gift, a White Kitten Appeared Under the Tree, and Kindness Worked Its Magic on the Entire Family

A Christmas Miracle Tom, can you explain to me, please, just how you managed to forget? I reminded you

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He Hated His Wife. Truly Hated Her… They Spent 15 Years Together—Waking Beside Each Other Every Morning—But Only This Past Year Did Her Habits Begin to Deeply Irritate Him. Especially One: Each Morning, While Still in Bed, She’d Stretch Out Her Arms and Say, “Good morning, sunshine! Today will be a marvellous day.” An Ordinary Phrase, Yet Her Thin Arms and Sleepy Face Filled Him with Disgust. She’d Rise, Gaze Out the Window for a Moment, Take Off Her Nightdress, and Head to the Bathroom. Early in Their Marriage, He Had Admired Her Body, Her Innocent Freedom Edging on Immodesty. Now, Though Her Figure Remained Beautiful, Her Nakedness Made Him Angry. Once, He Even Wanted to Push Her—Shove Her into Starting the Day Faster—But He Settled for Snapping, “Hurry up, I’m sick of waiting!” She Never Rushed. She Knew About His Three-Year Affair and Even Knew the Young Woman Involved, but Time and Quiet Resignation Had Dulled the Wound to Her Pride—Leaving Only Sadness and a Sense of Unimportance. She Forgave His Hostility, Neglect, His Longing to Relive His Youth, Yet She Didn’t Allow Him to Dictate the Pace of Her Life. She Had Lived This Way Since Learning She Was Terminally Ill. Month by Month, Her Illness Consumed Her, with No Hope of Recovery. Her First Impulse Was to Tell Everyone to Ease the Cruelty of the Truth by Sharing It Piece by Piece with Family. But After Surviving the Worst Days Alone, She Decided to Keep Silent. With Each Passing Day, She Found Quiet Wisdom—Learning to Contemplate. She Sought Solitude in a Tiny Village Library, An Hour-and-a-Half’s Walk Away. Every Day She’d Slip Between the Bookshelves Labelled “Mysteries of Life and Death,” Finding Books She Hoped Held All the Answers. Meanwhile, He Felt Alive Only in His Lover’s House—So Warm, Bright, And Familiar After Three Years. He Loved Her Madly, Jealously, Even Desperately. Today, He Arrived with a Solid Decision: Divorce. Why Torture All Three of Them Anymore? He Didn’t Love His Wife—He Hated Her! Here, He Would Start Again, Happier. He Tried Remembering How He’d Once Felt About His Wife But Failed. It Seemed She’d Annoyed Him from the Very Beginning. Pulling a Photo of Her from His Wallet—A Simple Act Sealing His Decision—He Tore It to Shreds. They Agreed to Meet in the Restaurant Where, Six Months Ago, They’d Celebrated Their Fifteenth Anniversary. She Arrived First. He Stopped by Home to Gather Divorce Papers, Rummaging through Drawers in a Fluster. In One Drawer He Discovered a Dark Blue Sealed Folder He’d Never Noticed. Kneeling On the Floor, He Tore Off the Tape, Expecting Anything—Even Blackmail Photos. Instead: Medical Reports, Lab Results, Doctor’s Letters—All with His Wife’s Name. Realisation Struck Like Lightning, Sending Chills Down His Spine. Illness! He Googled the Diagnosis. The Screen Displayed: “6 to 18 months.” Looking at the dates, He Saw Six Months Had Already Passed Since Her Tests. After That, Everything Blurred—His Mind Echoing Only the Words, “6-18 months.” She Waited 40 Minutes. No Answer to Her Calls. She Paid the Bill and Stepped Into a Beautiful Autumn Day—Gentle Sun Warming Her Heart. “How Beautiful Life Is—How Lovely to Be Here, With Sunlight and Trees.” For the First Time Since Learning Her Fate, She Felt Truly Sorry for Herself. She Had Kept Her Terrible Secret from Husband, Family, and Friends, Sparing Them at the Cost of Her Own Shattered Life. Soon, All That Would Remain Would Be a Memory. She Walked the Streets, Watching People’s Joyful Eyes Looking Forward—To Winter, Then Spring. She’d Never Know Such Hope Again. Grief Swelled Up and Spilled Over In Endless Tears… He Prowled His Room, Suddenly Overwhelmed by the Fragility of Life. He Remembered His Wife When They First Met, Young and Hopeful. He Once Had Loved Her! It Was as if the Past Fifteen Years Had Vanished, And All that Remained Was Youth, Happiness, Promise… In Her Final Days, He Surrounded Her with Tenderness, Refusing to Leave Her Side—Feeling More Alive Than Ever. He Was Terrified of Losing Her and Would Have Given His Life to Save Hers. If Reminded That Just a Month Ago He Had Hated Her, He’d Swear, “That wasn’t me.” He Saw How Hard Death Was for Her—How She Wept at Night, Believing Him Asleep. He Knew There Was No Greater Punishment than Knowing When You’ll Die. He Saw Her Fighting for Every Day, Clinging to the Faintest Hope. She Died Two Months Later. He Covered the Road from Their Home to the Cemetery in Flowers and Wept Like a Child as Her Coffin Was Lowered into the Earth—A Thousand Years Older, All at Once… At Home, Beneath Her Pillow, He Found Her New Year’s Wish: “To Be Happy With Him Until the End of My Days.” They Say All Wishes Made on New Year’s Eve Come True. Perhaps They Do—Since In That Same Year, He’d Written: “To Be Free.” In the End, Each Received Exactly What They Had Wished For…

He loathed his wife. Loathed her… Theyd spent fifteen years togetheran entire decade and a half.