He Hated His Wife. He Hated Her… They Had Spent 15 Years Together. For 15 Whole Years, He Saw Her Every Morning, But Only in the Past Year Had Her Habits Begun to Drive Him Mad—Especially One: Stretching Out Her Arms in Bed and Saying, “Good Morning, Sunshine! Today Will Be a Wonderful Day.” Simple Words, Yet Her Thin Hands and Sleepy Face Filled Him with Disgust. She Would Rise, Gaze Out the Window for a Few Moments, Take Off Her Nightdress, and Head to the Bathroom. Once, at the Start of Their Marriage, He Had Admired Her Body and That Freedom That Borderlined on Indecency. Even Now, Though Her Figure Remained Lovely, the Sight of Her Nakedness Filled Him with Rage. Once, He Even Wanted to Push Her to Hurry Her “Waking-Up Process,” But He Only Managed to Bark, “Hurry Up, I’ve Had Enough!” She Didn’t Rush Through Life. She Knew of His Affair and Even Knew the Girl He’d Been Seeing for Three Years. Time Had Scabbed Over the Wounds to Her Pride, Leaving Only a Lingering Sadness. She Forgave His Anger, Indifference, and Foolish Attempts at Recapturing His Youth, But She Refused to Let Anyone Rush Her Life, Savoring Every Minute. That Was How She’d Lived Since Discovering Her Illness. Month by Month, It Was Devouring Her. The First Urge Was to Tell Everyone About Her Fate, Parse the Brutal Truth Into Pieces to Share with Family. But After Spending Those First Terrifying Days Alone, Contemplating Her Mortality, She Decided to Keep Her Secret. As Life Slipped Away, She Gained a Kind of Wisdom, Learning to Simply Observe. She Found Solace in a Little Village Library, a Ninety-Minute Walk Away, Where She’d Disappear Between Bookshelves Labelled “Mysteries of Life and Death” and Seek Answers in Books. He Came to His Lover’s House—Warm, Bright, Familiar. They’d Been Together Three Years, Bound by an Obsessive Love that Saw Him Burning with Jealousy One Moment and Humiliated the Next, Unable to Breathe Away from Her Young Body. Today, He Made up His Mind: Divorce. Why Torture All Three of Them? He No Longer Loved His Wife—He Couldn’t Even Remember Liking Her. He Fished Out Her Photo from His Wallet and Tore It to Shreds, a Symbol of His Decision. They Agreed to Meet in a Restaurant—The Same Where They’d Celebrated Their 15th Anniversary Six Months Before. She Arrived First. He, Meanwhile, Stopped at Home to Hunt for the Divorce Papers, Tearing Through Drawers in a Frenzied Search. There He Found a Dark Blue Sealed Folder He’d Never Noticed. He Tore It Open, Expecting Anything—Even Blackmail Photos. But Instead, He Found Medical Reports and Official Hospital Documents, All with Her Name. Like a Jolt of Electricity, Realization Hit: She Was Seriously Ill. He Googled the Diagnosis, Reading the Chilling Prognosis: “6 to 18 Months.” He Checked the Dates—She’d Been Tested Six Months Ago. The Only Thing That Echoed in His Mind Was, “6 to 18 Months.” She Waited Forty Minutes at the Restaurant. No Answer to Her Calls. She Paid and Left. It Was a Glorious Autumn Day; The Sun Warmed the Soul. “How Beautiful Life Is, How Wonderful to Be on This Earth, with the Sun and the Woods.” For the First Time Since Learning of Her Illness, She Felt Sorry for Herself. Somehow, She’d Managed to Keep Her Terrible Secret from Husband, Family, Friends. She’d Tried to Give Them Peace, Even at the Cost of Her Own Happiness. Soon, All That Would Remain of Her Would Be a Memory. As She Walked, She Saw the Hope and Anticipation in People’s Eyes—Winter Coming, and Then After, Surely, Spring! She Would Not Have That Again. The Injustice Boiled Over in a Torrent of Tears… Back Home, He Paced the Room. For the First Time, He Felt Physically Overwhelmed by the Fragility of Life. He Remembered His Wife as She’d Been, When They Were Young and Hopeful. He Realized He Had Loved Her Then, That Their 15 Years Had Vanished in an Instant, and That Maybe, Just Maybe, Everything Was Still Ahead—Happiness, Youth, Life… In Her Final Days, He Became Devoted, Never Leaving Her Side, Transformed by a Newfound Love and Terror at Losing Her. He Would Have Traded Places with Her, If Only It Could Save Her. If Anyone Reminded Him That Just A Month Before He’d Loathed Her And Planned Divorce, He’d Have Said, “That Wasn’t Me.” He Saw Her Struggle to Let Go, Saw Her Crying at Night When She Thought He Slept. He Understood: There Is No Worse Punishment Than Knowing the Date of Your Own End. He Watched Her Fighting for Life, Grasping to Even the Most Delusional Hopes. She Died After Two Months. He Covered the Path from Home to Grave with Flowers and Wept Like a Baby as Her Coffin Was Lowered, Aging a Thousand Years in a Single Day… At Home, Under Her Pillow, He Found a Note, a Wish She’d Written on New Year’s Eve: “To Be Happy With Him for the Rest of My Days.” People Say All New Year’s Wishes Come True. Maybe It’s True—That Same Year, He’d Written: “To Be Free.” In the End, Each Got Exactly What, For So Long, They Thought They Wanted…

I despised my wife. Despised her

Wed been together for fifteen years. Fifteen whole years of my life, waking up every morning to see her face beside mine, but it was only in the last year that her habits started to get on my nerves, almost unbearably so. There was one, especially: she would stretch out her arms in bed, eyes still hardly open, and say, Morning, sunshine! Today will be a wonderful day. Such a simple phrase, but her thin arms, her sleepy expressioneverything about it set my teeth on edge.

Shed get up, stroll over to the window, and stare out at the garden for a moment or two. Then, shed slip off her nightdress and wander into the bathroom. At the start of our marriage, Id been captivated by her bodyby her freedom, her natural elegance that bordered on wildness. And still, she remained stunning, but now the sight of her undressed filled me only with irritation. One morning, I almost shoved her just to hurry her along in her waking routine, but instead, I gritted my teeth and barked, For heavens sake, hurry up, will you?

She never rushed. She seemed to pass through life at her own pace. She already knew about my affairshe even knew the womans name; Id been seeing Olivia for nearly three years. Time had dulled the wound to her pride, leaving only a delicate trace of sadness. She forgave my sharp words, my distractions, my foolish yearning to replay my youth. Yet, she didnt let me disturb her sense of calm, her measured awareness of each moment.

Thats how she chose to live after she found out about her illness. Month by month, the disease was stealing more of her away, and soon there wouldnt be much left. Her initial urge was to share her diagnosisblurt it out to everyone, as if dividing the burden would somehow soften the blow. The hardest days were spent alone with the knowledge that her end was drawing near, and after getting through them, she decided shed keep it to herself. Her days were slipping by, but with each one, her wisdom grewthe quiet sort a person attains when they are forced to reflect.

She found solace in the little village library, a ninety-minute walk from our home in the Cotswolds. Each day, she would escape there, tucking herself into a narrow space between bookshelves labelled in the old librarians careful hand: Mysteries of Life and Death. Shed pick up a book that, perhaps, would give her the answers she craved.

Meanwhile, I would go to Olivias house. Everything there felt bright, warm, alive. Wed been lovers for three years, and I loved her in a way that was nearly derangedI was jealous, sometimes humiliating myself, and suffocated when we were apart.

Today, I went to her flat with a decision burning in my chest: I would file for divorce. Why torture the three of us any further? I didnt love my wife. In fact, I loathed her. Here, with Olivia, I would begin afreshhappily, finally. I tried to recall the affection I once had for my wife but found nothing. It almost seemed as if shed always irritated me, even from our first meeting. I fished out a photograph of her from my wallet, and with a sense of finality, tore it to bits.

Wed arranged to meet at a restaurantthe same one where, six months prior, wed celebrated our fifteenth anniversary. She arrived early. I stopped at home before our meeting to find the documents for the divorce. Irritated, I upended the contents of drawers, tossing papers onto the floor.

In the smallest drawer, there was a dark blue folder, sealed with tape. I didnt recall seeing it before. Kneeling on the carpet, I ripped it open, expecting almost anythingmaybe even some kind of evidence for blackmail. But instead, I found countless test results, NHS stamps, discharge notes, doctors lettersall stamped with my wifes name.

The realisation struck like a bolt of lightning, a cold wave running down my back. Sick! I scrambled for my laptop, typed her diagnosis into Google, and up flashed the terrible words: 6 to 18 months. I looked at the dates: her diagnosis was six months old. Everything after that is a haze. All I could think was: 6 to 18 months.

She waited for me at the restaurant for forty minutes. The phone rang unanswered. She paid the billthirty-eight poundseven left a tip, and stepped outside. It was a golden autumn afternoon: the sun gentle, not burning, but warming. How beautiful life is, how good it is to walk this earth, close to the sun and the woods, she thought.

For the first time since her diagnosis, she truly pitied herself. Shed summoned the strength to hide her secrether terrible newsfrom me, her parents, her friends. She wanted to make life a little easier for us, even at the expense of her own peace. Soon, all that would remain would be a memory.

As she walked through the fallen leaves, she watched people smiling, talking, making plansbelieving that winter was coming, but spring would surely follow. She would never know that feeling again. The hurt swelled within her, finally spilling out in a flood of tears that wouldnt stop.

Back home, I paced the room. For the first time, I felt the fleetingness of lifeso raw it was almost physical. I remembered my wife as she was, years ago, when we first fell in love, full of hope. I realised those fifteen years seemed to vanish in a blink. I felt as if everything might be ahead of us againyouth, joy, life itself.

In her last days, I enveloped her with every ounce of care, by her side day and night, feeling a happiness Id never known. I was terrified of losing her. I would have given anythingmy own life, if it meant keeping her here. If anyone had reminded me that only weeks ago, I hated her and longed for divorce, Id have said, That wasnt me.

I saw how hard it was for her to say goodbye; I saw her cry at night, thinking I was asleep. I finally realisedtheres no punishment worse than knowing when your end is coming. I witnessed her battle, clinging to the faintest, wildest hope.

She passed away just two months later. I lined the road from our house to the cemetery with armfuls of flowers. I wept uncontrollably at the graveside as her coffin was loweredfelt myself age a thousand years.

At home, under her pillow, I found a note with her wish, written for New Years: To be happy with him to the very end. They say wishes made on New Years Eve always come true. Perhaps they do, because that same night I wrote: To be free.

We each received, it seems, that which we thought we wanted.