He Hated His Wife. Truly Hated Her… They Spent 15 Years Together—Waking Beside Each Other Every Morning—But Only This Past Year Did Her Habits Begin to Deeply Irritate Him. Especially One: Each Morning, While Still in Bed, She’d Stretch Out Her Arms and Say, “Good morning, sunshine! Today will be a marvellous day.” An Ordinary Phrase, Yet Her Thin Arms and Sleepy Face Filled Him with Disgust. She’d Rise, Gaze Out the Window for a Moment, Take Off Her Nightdress, and Head to the Bathroom. Early in Their Marriage, He Had Admired Her Body, Her Innocent Freedom Edging on Immodesty. Now, Though Her Figure Remained Beautiful, Her Nakedness Made Him Angry. Once, He Even Wanted to Push Her—Shove Her into Starting the Day Faster—But He Settled for Snapping, “Hurry up, I’m sick of waiting!” She Never Rushed. She Knew About His Three-Year Affair and Even Knew the Young Woman Involved, but Time and Quiet Resignation Had Dulled the Wound to Her Pride—Leaving Only Sadness and a Sense of Unimportance. She Forgave His Hostility, Neglect, His Longing to Relive His Youth, Yet She Didn’t Allow Him to Dictate the Pace of Her Life. She Had Lived This Way Since Learning She Was Terminally Ill. Month by Month, Her Illness Consumed Her, with No Hope of Recovery. Her First Impulse Was to Tell Everyone to Ease the Cruelty of the Truth by Sharing It Piece by Piece with Family. But After Surviving the Worst Days Alone, She Decided to Keep Silent. With Each Passing Day, She Found Quiet Wisdom—Learning to Contemplate. She Sought Solitude in a Tiny Village Library, An Hour-and-a-Half’s Walk Away. Every Day She’d Slip Between the Bookshelves Labelled “Mysteries of Life and Death,” Finding Books She Hoped Held All the Answers. Meanwhile, He Felt Alive Only in His Lover’s House—So Warm, Bright, And Familiar After Three Years. He Loved Her Madly, Jealously, Even Desperately. Today, He Arrived with a Solid Decision: Divorce. Why Torture All Three of Them Anymore? He Didn’t Love His Wife—He Hated Her! Here, He Would Start Again, Happier. He Tried Remembering How He’d Once Felt About His Wife But Failed. It Seemed She’d Annoyed Him from the Very Beginning. Pulling a Photo of Her from His Wallet—A Simple Act Sealing His Decision—He Tore It to Shreds. They Agreed to Meet in the Restaurant Where, Six Months Ago, They’d Celebrated Their Fifteenth Anniversary. She Arrived First. He Stopped by Home to Gather Divorce Papers, Rummaging through Drawers in a Fluster. In One Drawer He Discovered a Dark Blue Sealed Folder He’d Never Noticed. Kneeling On the Floor, He Tore Off the Tape, Expecting Anything—Even Blackmail Photos. Instead: Medical Reports, Lab Results, Doctor’s Letters—All with His Wife’s Name. Realisation Struck Like Lightning, Sending Chills Down His Spine. Illness! He Googled the Diagnosis. The Screen Displayed: “6 to 18 months.” Looking at the dates, He Saw Six Months Had Already Passed Since Her Tests. After That, Everything Blurred—His Mind Echoing Only the Words, “6-18 months.” She Waited 40 Minutes. No Answer to Her Calls. She Paid the Bill and Stepped Into a Beautiful Autumn Day—Gentle Sun Warming Her Heart. “How Beautiful Life Is—How Lovely to Be Here, With Sunlight and Trees.” For the First Time Since Learning Her Fate, She Felt Truly Sorry for Herself. She Had Kept Her Terrible Secret from Husband, Family, and Friends, Sparing Them at the Cost of Her Own Shattered Life. Soon, All That Would Remain Would Be a Memory. She Walked the Streets, Watching People’s Joyful Eyes Looking Forward—To Winter, Then Spring. She’d Never Know Such Hope Again. Grief Swelled Up and Spilled Over In Endless Tears… He Prowled His Room, Suddenly Overwhelmed by the Fragility of Life. He Remembered His Wife When They First Met, Young and Hopeful. He Once Had Loved Her! It Was as if the Past Fifteen Years Had Vanished, And All that Remained Was Youth, Happiness, Promise… In Her Final Days, He Surrounded Her with Tenderness, Refusing to Leave Her Side—Feeling More Alive Than Ever. He Was Terrified of Losing Her and Would Have Given His Life to Save Hers. If Reminded That Just a Month Ago He Had Hated Her, He’d Swear, “That wasn’t me.” He Saw How Hard Death Was for Her—How She Wept at Night, Believing Him Asleep. He Knew There Was No Greater Punishment than Knowing When You’ll Die. He Saw Her Fighting for Every Day, Clinging to the Faintest Hope. She Died Two Months Later. He Covered the Road from Their Home to the Cemetery in Flowers and Wept Like a Child as Her Coffin Was Lowered into the Earth—A Thousand Years Older, All at Once… At Home, Beneath Her Pillow, He Found Her New Year’s Wish: “To Be Happy With Him Until the End of My Days.” They Say All Wishes Made on New Year’s Eve Come True. Perhaps They Do—Since In That Same Year, He’d Written: “To Be Free.” In the End, Each Received Exactly What They Had Wished For…

He loathed his wife. Loathed her…

Theyd spent fifteen years togetheran entire decade and a half. Every single morning, he saw her face, but only in the past year had her habits truly begun to grate on him. One in particular: she would stretch out her arms, still tangled in the sheets, and whisper, Good morning, darling. Today will be wonderful. It was such an ordinary phrase, yet her thin arms, her drowsy expression filled him with revulsion.

She would rise, walk past the window, pausing to gaze out across the rolling fields, lost in thought for a few seconds. Then, she would slip off her nightgown and head for the bathroom. Early in their marriage, hed admired her body, her liberated ease that skirted the edge of impropriety. Even now, she remained beautiful, but the sight of her bare skin now fueled only his fury. Once, he nearly shoved her to hasten her slow routines, but instead bit back the urge and snapped, harshly:

Hurry up, Ive had enough of this.

She didnt rush. She knew about his affair, even knew the young woman hed been seeing for nearly three years. But time had blunted the sting of wounded pride, leaving only the dull ache of not being needed. She forgave his cruelty, his cold distance, his clumsy attempt to recapture lost youth. Yet she would not allow him to interfere with how she inhabited her own dwindling moments, each one felt and accounted for.

Thats how she chose to live after she discovered her illness. Month by month, it devoured her, and soon, it would win. At first, her instinct was to confide in everyone she loved, to scatter her pain and lessen its grip. But those first dreadful days, she faced alone, wrestling with the grim finality of death. On the second day, she made a firm decision: she would tell no one. With each leaking moment, she grew quieter, gaining the wisdom of those who know how to simply watch and breathe.

She found solace in a small village library, a ninety-minute walk away. Every day, she slipped into a narrow gap between dusty bookcases labelled Mysteries of Life and Death by the elderly librarian and found books she hoped would yield every answer she needed.

He spent his afternoons at his lovers flat. It was always bright, alive, warm. Three years togetherhe was obsessed. He was jealous, demeaning, humbled, desperate; he couldnt breathe when far from her youth and laughter.

Today, he came with a resolve: he would file for divorce. Why keep tormenting the three of them? He didnt love his wifein truth, he hated her. Here, hed be happy, live a new life. He tried to conjure the old feelings that once drew him to his wife and found nothing. He convinced himself her faults had always gratedright from day one. Pulling a photo of her from his wallet, he tore it to shreds in a silent act of resolve.

They agreed to meet at a restaurantironically, the same one where, six months earlier, theyd marked their fifteenth anniversary. She arrived first. He swung by home to sift through the cupboards for the divorce papers he needed, growing frantic as he ransacked drawers, tossing their contents to the floor.

In one hidden corner, he spotted a dark blue sealed foldersomething hed never seen before. Kneeling, he peeled back the tape. Expecting perhaps incriminating photos, instead he found reams of medical paperwork, stamped letters from clinics and hospitals, test results. Each page carried his wifes name.

Like a bolt of lightning, comprehension struck. Ill. He dashed to his computer, entered the diagnosis, and was met by a chilling phrase: 6 to 18 months. The first hospital date was six months past. After that, the details blurred. One sentence blared in his mind: 6 to 18 months.

She waited for him for forty minutes. No answer on the phone. She paid the bill in pounds, stepped out onto the street. It was a glorious autumn daythe sun neither scorched nor hid, simply warming. How wonderful it is, this life. How good to be here, with the distant woods and golden sun.

For the first time since learning of her illness, she felt sorrow for herself. She had kept her secret well, shielding her husband, her parents, her dearest friends from the horror. She had chosen to make their lives lighter, even at the cost of her own. Soon, her story would be only memory.

She walked on, noticing the sparkle in peoples eyesthose with their lives ahead of them, looking forward to winter, and the renewal of spring. She would never feel that promise again. The grief inside swelled until it broke in a wash of hot, unstoppable tears.

He paced the bedroom. For the first time in his life, he felt the fleetingness of existencekeenly, almost painfully. He remembered his wife as she once was, young and vibrant when their story began, when hope was all they had. He realised, with a wave of regret, that he did love herperhaps always had. Those missing fifteen years rushed back; perhaps, happiness, youth, life were still ahead

In those final weeks, he showered her with care, remained by her side every hour, clutching at a happiness hed never truly known. He feared the day she would slip away. He would have traded his life for hers, pleaded with fate itself. If someone had told him just a month before that hed despised her and longed for divorce, hed have replied, That was never me.

He saw her struggle through her remaining days, heard her weeping softly at night as she thought he slept. He realised there is no greater punishment than to know the hour of one’s end. Still, he watched her fight, clinging to every wild hope.

She passed away two months later. He scattered blossoms down the lane from their house to her grave. He wept openly as her coffin was lowered, and in that moment, he felt as though a thousand years had passed.

At home, beneath her pillow, he found a note she had scrawled one New Years Eve: To be happy with Him, to the very end. They say if you wish for something as the new year arrives, it will come true. Perhaps thats truebecause the same year, he had written: To be free.

Each received what they had wished foror so it seemed.