He couldnt stand his wife. Theyd been married fifteen yearsfifteen bloody years of waking up to her every morning. But this past year, every little habit of hers had started grating on him. The worst? Stretching her arms out in bed, still half-asleep, and saying, *”Morning, love! Its going to be a lovely day.”* Such a simple phrase, but the sight of her bony arms and puffy face made him recoil.
Shed get up, shuffle to the window, and stare into the distance for a few seconds. Then shed slip off her nightgown and head to the shower. Back when theyd first married, hed adored her body, the way she carried herself with this careless freedom. Even now, she was still slim, but everything about her irritated him. Once, hed even wanted to shove her, just to hurry her along, but he clenched his fists and snapped instead: *”Hurry up, Ive had enough of this!”*
She never rushed. She knew about his affairhad known for three years, in fact. Knew the woman hed been seeing. Time had dulled the sting of betrayal, leaving only a quiet sadness. She forgave his anger, his indifference, his desperate attempts to relive his youth. But she refused to let anyone steal her peace. She livedslowly, deliberatelysavoring every moment.
Shed made that choice the day she found out she was ill. The disease was eating her alive, month by month, and soon it would win. At first, shed wanted to tell everyoneshare the burden, ease the weight. But the hardest days she faced alone, with nothing but the creeping certainty of the end. Her life was slipping away, but with each passing day, she gained a strange, quiet wisdom.
She found comfort in a tiny libraryan hour and a half away, but she went every day. There was a narrow aisle marked by a handwritten sign from the old librarian: *”The Mysteries of Life and Death.”* Shed search for a bookany bookthat might hold the answers she needed.
Meanwhile, he was off to his mistress. Everything there was bright, warm, familiar. Three years of stolen moments, and he *”loved”* her in this twisted wayobsessively, guiltily, unable to breathe when he wasnt near her young body. Today, hed decided: *”Im leaving my wife. Why make us all suffer? I dont love herI cant stand her.”* This was where his happiness would begin. He pulled out a photo of his wife from his wallet and tore it to shreds, as if that made it final.
Theyd agreed to meet at the restaurant where theyd celebrated their fifteenth anniversary just six months ago. She arrived first. Hed stopped at home, rummaging through drawers for divorce papers. In one, he found a dark blue foldernever seen it before. He tore off the tape, expecting some kind of evidence against him. Instead, there were stacks of medical reports, test results, all stamped with her name.
The realisation hit like a bolt of lightning, ice flooding his veins. *She was sick.* He Googled the diagnosis. The screen flashed back: *”6 to 18 months.”* He checked the datessix months had already passed. His mind went blank. Just that phrase, over and over: *”6 to 18 months.”*
Autumn was beautifulgolden and crisp. *”What a strange, lovely life,”* she thought. For the first time since her diagnosis, she felt a pang of pity for herself.
She walked, watching people laugh, knowing winter was comingand after that, spring. Shed never feel it again. The grief swelled inside her, spilling over in silent tears.
He paced the house, struck for the first time by how fleeting everything was. He remembered her youngwhen theyd just married, full of hope. He *had* loved her once. Now, those fifteen years felt like nothing. As if the future was still wide openhappiness, youth, life itself
In her last days, he stayed by her side, consumed by a desperate, unfamiliar love. Terrified of losing her, hed have given anything to keep her. If someone had reminded him that just a month ago, hed hated herwanted a divorcehed have said, *”That wasnt me.”*
He watched her struggle to let go, heard her cry at night when she thought he was asleep. There was no punishment worse, he realised, than knowing the date of your own end.
She died two months later. He lined the path from their house to the cemetery with flowers. Sobbed like a child as they lowered the casket. Aged ten years in a day.
At home, under her pillow, he found a notea New Years wish shed written: *”To be happy with him till the end of my days.”* They say New Years wishes come true. Maybe they do, because that same year, he wrote his own: *”To be free.”*
In the end, they each got exactly what theyd wantedas if life had simply granted their deepest desires.
