He despised his wife. They had lived together for fifteen years. Fifteen long years of waking up to her face, and over the past year, every tiny habit of hers had begun to grate on him unbearably. Especially oneshe would stretch out her arms while still in bed and murmur, “Good morning, love! Today will be wonderful.” A simple phrase, but her thin wrists and sleep-swollen face filled him with revulsion.
She would rise, walk to the window, and gaze into the distance for a few seconds. Then she would shed her nightgown and step into the shower. Once, at the start of their marriage, he had adored her body, the way she moved with careless freedom, sometimes even beyond propriety. Though her figure was still slender, the sight of her now irritated him. Once, he had even wanted to shove her, to jolt her awake, but he clenched his fists and only snapped, “Hurry up, Ive had enough of this!”
She never hurried through life. She knew about his affairhad even known the woman hed been seeing for nearly three years. Time had buried the wounds to her pride deep, leaving only a quiet sorrow, the ache of being unwanted. She forgave his aggression, his indifference, his desperate clawing after lost youth. But she refused to let anyone steal her peaceshe lived deliberately, savouring every moment.
That was how she chose to live after learning she was ill. The disease gnawed at her, month by month, and soon it would win. At first, she had wanted to tell everyoneto unburden herself, to share the weight of it. But the hardest days she bore alone, steeling herself against the creeping end, resolved to stay silent. Her life was ebbing away, yet with each passing day, a quiet wisdom grew within her.
She found solace in a small libraryan hour and a halfs journey, but every day she slipped into its narrow aisles, beneath a sign the old librarian had handwritten: “The Mysteries of Life and Death.” There, she searched for the book that might hold all her answers.
Meanwhile, he went to his mistress. Everything there was bright, warm, familiar. They had been together for three years, and all that time, he had “loved” her with a desperate, possessive firejealous, guilty, suffocating when apart from her young body. Today, he arrived with a decision: he would end his marriage. Why torment all three of them? He didnt love his wifehe hated her. A new happiness awaited. He pulled a photo of his wife from his wallet and, in a show of resolve, tore it into tiny pieces.
They had arranged to meet at the restaurant where, six months earlier, they had celebrated their fifteenth anniversary. She arrived first. He had stopped at home beforehand, rummaging through drawers for divorce papers. In one, he found a dark blue folder hed never seen before. He ripped off the tape, expecting some damning secretonly to find stacks of medical reports, test results, official letters, all stamped with her name and initials.
The realisation struck like lightning. Cold sweat prickled down his spine. She was ill. He plunged into the internet, typing in the diagnosis. A terrifying line appeared: “Six to eighteen months.” He checked the datessix months had already passed since the tests. The rest blurred. The words echoed in his skull: *Six to eighteen months.*
Autumn was beautifulthe sun gentle, warming the soul. “How strange, how beautiful life is,” she thought. For the first time since learning of her illness, she felt a pang of sorrow for herself.
She walked and watched people rejoicewinter was coming, and after it, spring. She would never see either again. Grief swelled inside her, spilling over in silent tears.
He paced the room, frantic. For the first time, the fleeting nature of everything struck him. He remembered her youngwhen they had just married, brimming with hope. He had loved her once. Now it all felt lost: fifteen years, as though they had never been. It seemed there was still everything aheadhappiness, youth, life…
In those final days, he surrounded her with care, never leaving her side, and discovered an unexpected joy. He feared losing her, would have given his life to keep her. If anyone had reminded him that just a month ago, he had hated her and dreamed of divorce, he would have said, “That wasnt me.”
He saw how hard it was for her to let go, how she wept at night, thinking him asleep. He understood there was no crueller sentence than knowing your own end. He watched her fight, clinging to the faintest hope.
She died two months later. He lined the path from their house to the graveyard with flowers. He wept like a child as they lowered the coffin; he aged decades in weeks.
At home, beneath her pillow, he found a notea wish she had written at New Year: *”To be happy with him until the end of my days.”* They say New Years wishes come true. Perhaps it was so, for that same year, he wrote: *”To be free.”*
Each got what they truly wantedas if it had all been arranged by their own desires.
