**The Closest Person**
Life is a peculiar thing. Sometimes you walk through it in a daze, barely noticing how swiftly everything shifts around you—children grow, friends drift away, and you yourself become older. Yet there’s one constant that remains unchanged: my wife, Emily. I didn’t realise it at first, not until years later when neither of us were those young, carefree lovers we’d once been. She’s aged, changed, just as I have, yet to me, she’s still the centre of my world, my home, my sanctuary.
Emily and I married nearly thirty years ago. Back then, I was certain I knew what love was. We were young, brimming with dreams and plans. She was so beautiful—long chestnut hair, sparks in her eyes, and a smile that made my heart skip. I imagined our life would be like a fairy tale: we’d build a home, have children, travel, and savour each day. But reality proved harder. Work, chores, the birth of our son Oliver, then our daughter Charlotte, money troubles, arguments—it all pulled us under like a whirlpool. Sometimes, I caught myself wondering why we were even together.
The years passed, and I noticed how Emily changed. Her hair began to grey, wrinkles etched her face, and her figure wasn’t what it had been in youth. She tired more easily, complained of aches, and her laughter—the one I adored—grew quieter. I hadn’t stayed the same either. My hair thinned, my back ached, and the energy I once had vanished. We were both different, and at times, I felt a wall rising between us. But one day, it struck me: no matter what, Emily was the one person I couldn’t imagine life without.
That realisation came unexpectedly. We were sitting on the patio of our home in Surrey, drinking tea, watching the sunset paint the sky in pinks and golds. Emily was chatting about a neighbour who’d quarrelled with her husband, then suddenly she stopped. She looked at me and said, “James, do you ever listen to a word I say?” I chuckled, and she shook her head, but there was warmth in her eyes. In that moment, I understood—this simple evening, her voice, her presence—was happiness. Not grand declarations or expensive gifts, just us, side by side, despite everything.
I started remembering our life together. How Emily held my hand when I lost my job and didn’t know how to feed the family. How she stayed up nights when Oliver was ill, and how she cried with pride when Charlotte graduated. I recalled how she steadied me when my father passed, and how we laughed at silly jokes even when everything was falling apart. She was always there—in joy and sorrow, in youth and now, when neither of us are who we once were.
Sometimes, I hear my mates complain about their wives. They gripe that they’ve “changed,” that they’re tired of the nagging or the moods. I stay quiet, not wanting to argue, but inside, I think: they don’t understand. A wife isn’t just someone you share a house with. She’s the one who knows you best, who’s seen you at your worst and stayed anyway. Emily knows I snore, that I despise black pudding, and that I retreat into silence when things weigh on me. And I know she’s afraid of thunderstorms, adores daisies, and always cries at rom-coms. We’re not perfect, but we’re a team.
Now, with our children grown—Oliver an architect in Manchester, Charlotte married and soon to make us grandparents—it’s just Emily and me. We’re proud of them, though sometimes I miss the days when the house echoed with giggles. Emily misses it too; I see it in her eyes. But instead of dwelling, she’s already knitting tiny booties and planning the nursery. Watching her, I think: how extraordinary she is.
We don’t often say “I love you.” Maybe because words aren’t needed anymore. Love is brewing her morning coffee because I know that’s how she likes to start the day. It’s her tucking a blanket over me if I doze off in the armchair. It’s our walks in the park, silent but connected. It’s her hand in mine as we stroll down the lane, and her smile—still, after all this time—making my heart race.
I don’t know how many years Emily and I have left. Life’s unpredictable, and I won’t dwell on the worst. But I do know this: as long as she’s beside me, I’m home. She’s my hearth, my harbour, my closest person. And if I could return to my youth, I’d choose her again—wrinkles, greys, and all—because no one matters more.
