He cannot stand his wife. He resents herdeeply. Theyve spent fifteen years together. Fifteen years of mornings with her beside him, yet its only in the past year that her habits have grated on him beyond endurance. One, in particular: she stretches out her thin arms and, still half asleep in bed, chirps, Good morning, sunshine! Its going to be a lovely day. Such a harmless phrase, yet her bony arms and drowsy face only provoke irritation and disgust in him.
She rises, walks along the window, gazes out for a moment as if searching for something. Then she slips off her nightdress and heads to the bathroom. At the beginning of their marriage, he admired her body, her easy confidencesometimes bordering on indecency. Even now her figure remains impressive for her age, but the sight of her undressing evokes nothing but anger. One morning, overwhelmed with annoyance, he nearly pushes her to hurry her up, but instead clenches his fists and snaps, Come on, for heavens sake! Havent you finished yet?
She moves at her own pace. Shes aware of his affairhas been for almost three years now. She even knows the name of the woman hes seeing. Time has dulled the sting of betrayal, leaving only a faint weight of unimportance clinging to her spirit. She forgives his moods, his distance, his desperate grasp at lost youth. But she no longer allows him to disturb her deliberate, measured way of living. She has learned the value in each moment.
This is how she has chosen to live since she discovered her illness. The disease is slowly eating away at her, month by month, and will claim her soon enough. Her first impulse was to tell everyoneto ease the sadness by breaking it into pieces and sharing it with her parents and friends. But the heaviest day of her life was spent alone, coming to terms with her approaching end. By the next morning, she resolved to say nothing. Her life is running out, yet each day she gains wisdomthe kind that comes only to those who learn how to quietly observe.
She finds her peace in a tiny village library, a ninety-minute trip she makes daily. There, she nestles in the cramped aisle between shelves marked Mysteries of Life and Death, inscribed in shaky handwriting by the old librarian, and she finds a book that always seems to hold all the answers.
He spends the evening at his lovers flat. Here, everything is bright, warm, and inviting. For three years, hes been obsessed with the woman: jealous, insecure, humiliating himself, unable to breathe unless hes near her youthful body.
Tonight, his mind is made uphe will get a divorce. Why make all three of them suffer? He doesnt love his wife; no, in fact, he hates her. Here, in this place, he can start freshfind happiness. He searches for the feelings he once held for his wife, but nothing comes to mind. He convinces himself shes always irritated him, right from the first day they met. He pulls a photo of her from his wallet and, as a symbol of his determination, rips it into tiny shreds.
They agree to meet in a restaurantthe same one where they celebrated their fifteenth anniversary just six months ago. She arrives first. He returns home beforehand, rummaging through drawers searching for the necessary paperwork for the divorce. In an anxious frenzy, he tips out entire drawers onto the bedroom floor.
In one, he discovers a dark blue sealed folderone hes never seen before. He crouches on the floor, tearing off the tape in a single swift movement. Expecting anythingmaybe incriminating photographshe discovers a stack of medical tests, certificates, letters, all stamped by NHS hospitals. Every single page bears his wifes name and initials.
Realisation erupts within him, cold and electric. Shes ill. He turns to the computer, enters the diagnosis, and the screen flashes a chilling prognosis: 6 to 18 months. He looks at the datessix months have already passed since her diagnosis. What happens next is a blur. The words 6 to 18 months echo relentlessly in his mind.
She waits for him at the restaurant for forty minutes. The phone rings and rings, but he never answers. Finally, she pays the billpounds, not roublesand steps into the crisp autumn air. The sun isnt scorching, but its gentleness warms her soul. How beautiful life is, how wonderful this earth, bathed in sunlight and the scent of the woods.
For the first time since her diagnosis, she feels a wave of pityfor herself. Shes managed to keep her illness hidden, a terrible secret from everyone: her husband, her parents, her closest friends. She tries to ease their lives by shouldering her own pain, even if it means destroying herself. Theres not much time left; soon, she will be only a memory.
She walks the pavement, watching peoples eyes gleam with the joy of livingso much hope for the future, for winter and then, inevitably, spring. She knows shell never experience that hope again. Bitterness wells up within her, overflowing in a torrent of tears.
He paces the flat. For the first time ever, he feels, almost physically, how brief life truly is. He remembers her as a young woman, the early days of laughter, the hope they once shared. How hed loved herback then. Suddenly, these past fifteen years feel weightless, as if erased. He imagines all that could still be: happiness, youth, living.
In her final weeks, he stays by her side day and night, surrounding her with care, feeling a happiness hes never known. He dreads her leaving. He would give anythinghis own life evento hold onto her. If someone reminded him how, just a month ago, he wanted a divorce, hed only shake his head and say: That wasnt me.
He sees her struggle to let go, sees her tears at night when she thinks hes asleep. He grasps the horror of waiting for your own death, the worst punishment of all. He watches her fight, clinging even to the smallest, wildest hope.
She passes away two months later. He weeps openly as he lays a path of flowers from home to her grave. He feels as old as the world itself, as if a century has passed in a day.
At home, beneath her pillow, he finds a folded note shed written at Christmas: To be happy with him until my last day. They say, if you make a wish at Christmas, its bound to come true. Perhaps its true, for that same year hed written: To be free.
Each got exactly what, deep down, theyd wished for.
