My Beloved Wife —How have you managed to live with the same wife for so many years? What’s the secret?—my brother would ask me every time he visited. —Love and enormous patience. That’s the whole secret,—I’d always reply. —That recipe isn’t for me. I love all women. Each one is a mystery. As for living with a book I’ve already read—no, thank you,—my brother would smirk. My younger brother Peter married at eighteen; his bride was ten years his senior. Kind-hearted Anna fell hopelessly in love with Peter for life. For Peter, she was little more than a fleeting amusement. Anna became a proper part of her husband’s household—one bustling with relatives—and gave birth to a son, Michael. The newlyweds received a tiny room to themselves. Anna treasured her delicate collection of porcelain figurines—ten rare pieces, all displayed proudly on an old dresser. Our large family knew how precious they were to her. She’d often stand, gazing at them in quiet admiration. Back then, I was only getting ready to start a family of my own, searching for that one special woman to be my wife for life. To my delight, I found her and we’ve now been married for over fifty years. Peter and Anna were married for ten years, but it brought Anna little to boast of. She tried her best to be a devoted wife and loving mother, compliant, gentle, agreeable. Still, something was missing for Peter. One evening, my brother came home the worse for drink. Something about Anna annoyed him—her look, her manner—so he started picking at her, joking crudely, grabbing her arms. Sensing an argument brewing, Anna silently left the room, taking little Michael outside. Suddenly, a terrible crash rang out. Anna knew instantly—it was her figurines. She rushed inside and couldn’t believe her eyes. Her beloved collection lay smashed on the floor, all but one piece miraculously spared. Anna picked up the lone survivor, kissed it, but said nothing to her barbarian of a husband. Only her tear-filled eyes spoke. After that, a deep rift formed between Peter and Anna. I think Anna, in her mind, grew distant from the family. She still did all her wifely duties, kept house well, but it was with effort, without enthusiasm. Peter turned more often to drink. Vulgar women and shady friends began turning up. Anna guessed what was going on, but closed into herself and grew distant, untethered. Peter all but abandoned his family, and Anna—watching his antics—realised you can’t chase the wind across a field. In the end, Anna and Peter quietly divorced—without shouting or blame. Anna took Michael and moved back to her hometown. The sole surviving figurine stood on the dresser, left behind in memory. Peter didn’t mourn. Instead, he dived headlong into a wild, reckless life. He fell in love easily and parted ways even more so. He married and divorced three more times, drank heavily, and partied without restraint. Yet, curiously, Peter was a respected economist at a university, often called to consult in other cities. Even a textbook bore his name. His future looked bright, but alcohol and chaos ruined everything. One day, our family thought Peter had finally settled down and was marrying a “stunning” woman. We attended a modest wedding. The bride had a seventeen-year-old son, and it quickly became clear that Peter and the lad would never get along. They were simply too different. Peter ignored the obvious, but after five years, a furious row between the two ended in divorce. Afterward, a string of fleeting “current” sweethearts—Lila, Natalie, Sarah—flitted through Peter’s life. He adored each one, certain he’d found his forever. But life had other plans: at fifty-three, Peter fell gravely ill. By then, no women were left by his side. Only my sisters and I cared for him as his illness confined him to bed. —Simon, there’s a suitcase under my bed. Fetch it,—Peter whispered, too weak to move. I found a dusty suitcase and opened it. Inside—carefully wrapped in soft cloths—was a collection of porcelain figurines. —I gathered these for Anna. I’ve never forgotten that silent reproach when she saw her smashed collection. She endured so much because of me. Remember my business trips? I bought figurines wherever I could. There’s a false bottom—take the money from there. It’s all my savings. Give it to Anna. Ask her to forgive me. We’ll never see each other again. Promise me you’ll give everything to Anna,—Peter turned to the wall. —Alright, Peter. I promise,—I choked out, knowing I’d soon lose my brother for good. —Anna’s address is under my pillow,—he added, never turning to face me again. Anna still lived in her childhood town. Michael was seriously ill, the doctors perplexed. “Go to Europe,” they said, “perhaps you’ll get help there.” I discovered this from Anna’s letter hidden under Peter’s pillow. Anna and Peter had quietly kept in touch, but only through her letters; Peter never replied. After Peter’s funeral, I set out to fulfill his last request. I met Anna at a quiet railway station. She was delighted to see me: —Oh, Simon, you look so much like Peter! Two peas in a pod. I handed Anna the suitcase, as Peter wished: —Anna, forgive your wayward husband. This is for you. There’s money, and something else from Peter. You’ll see at home. Remember, you were always Peter’s beloved wife. With that, Anna and I parted for good. Some time later, I received a single letter from her: “Simon, thank you to both you and Peter. I am grateful God brought Peter into my life. We sold the figurines for a good price—a true collector bought them. I could never look at them without remembering they once passed through Peter’s hands. It’s a pity he left so soon. With the money, Michael and I moved to Canada, as my sister had long invited us. I had nothing left holding me back. I’d hoped Peter would ask me to stay—he didn’t, but he still saw me as his beloved wife. So he didn’t forget me after all. By the way, Michael is doing much better here, and he is happy. Farewell.” No return address.

A WIFE OF ONE’S OWN

How do you manage to stay with the same wife for so many years? Whats the trick? My brother would always put this to me each time he paid a visit.

Love and endless patience. Thats all there is to it, Id reply, exactly the same each time.

That formulas not for me. I love all women. Each is a mystery. Why settle for a book Ive already read? hed sneer, a smirk on his lips.

My younger brother, Patrick, married when he was only eighteen. His bride, Alice, was ten years older than him. Sweet, devoted Alice had fallen head over heels for Patrick, certain the rest of her life was meant to be with him. But for Patrick, she was hardly more than a fleeting amusement.

Alice, now Patricks lawful wife, moved into his crowded family homeeight of us under one roof. She gave birth to a beautiful baby boy, Matthew, convinced that shed caught the bluebird of happiness by the tail. The young couple were given a tiny bedroom, cramped and creaking with memories.

Alice cherished her exquisite collection of porcelain figurines more than anything. Ten rare ornaments, each cared for as though it were a living creature. Shed arranged them carefully atop a battered old chest of drawers, their delicate forms catching the sunlight. The entire family understood that these fragile pieces were her treasures. Frequently, Alice would stop and gaze at them, fingers hovering above their smooth glaze, relishing their quiet beauty.

At that time, I hadnt yet married. Id been weighing up my own prospects, determined to find the woman whod be mine alone, for life. Fortunately, my wish came trueIve been married to my Evelyn for over fifty years.

Patrick and Alice managed ten years together. By then, Alice had little to show for it. Shed been the soul of a good wife, loving her husband and their son with all her heart. Gentle, obedient, accommodating. Yet something was always missing for Patrick.

Once, Patrick stumbled in half-drunk. Something about Alices looks, her manner, set him off. He began picking at her, making coarse jokes, grabbing at her arms. Alice, foreseeing the storm brewing, left the room in silence, clutching Matthews hand as she slipped out to the garden.

Suddenly, a horrifying crash echoed through the house. Alice didnt need to see; she knew her precious figurines had met their end. She sprinted back inside, her heart in her throat. There, on the floor, her beloved collection lay in ruinsshattered to pathetic bits, save for a single porcelain dancer that, by some miracle, had survived.

Alice knelt, lifted the lone survivor, and kissed it with trembling lips. She didnt speak. But her eyes were brimming with tears, overflowing with silent accusation.

That moment sent a crack through their marriage. I believe, in her heart, Alice moved out of our family long before she ever left the house. She carried ondutiful as ever, never failing in her work about the home. Yet now every effort rang hollow, stiff and joyless.

Patrick began drinking more heavily. Soon he was bringing around all sorts of unsavoury women and dodgy mates. Alice noticed everything, but spoke less and less, withdrawing into herself, growing distant and lost. Patrick started staying out for days at a time, ignoring his wife and son altogether. Watching his escapades, Alice finally realised you cant chase the wind. Eventually, they divorcedno screams, no cruel words, no mud flung, only resignation. Alice took Matthew back to her hometown. The single undamaged figurine remained, standing lonely atop the chest. Alice left it as a keepsake.

Patrick, meanwhile, didnt brood for long. His reckless, untethered life rolled on, without brakes or responsibility. Patrick flitted from one brief passion to the nextmarried and divorced three times. Wine became his solace, until he was often lost to the world. Strangely, he did well at work, teaching economics at the university. He was sought after by firms all over the country for consultations; he even published a textbook with his name on the cover. People predicted a glittering future. But drink and chaos erased it all.

We thought, for a time, that Patrick had finally settled down. He was to wed a stunning woman. The whole family was called to a modest wedding. She had a son, seventeen, who clearly was not going to get along with Patrick. They were strangers under one roof, too odd and mismatched to find their footingthe fact Patrick stubbornly ignored. In truth, this stepson was the wedge that split their marriage five years on. Not far off from a real disaster; they nearly resorted to blows.

Afterwards, Patricks life filled with a rotating cast of womenLydia, Natalie, Claireeach of whom he declared the love of his life, each time convinced this one was forever. But fate had other things in mind.

At fifty-three, news came: Patrick was terminally ill. By then, all his beloveds had quietly disappeared. I, along with our sisters, saw to his care.

Simon, theres a suitcase under my bed. Bring it here, would you? Patricks words slurred from pain and weakness.

I knelt, sliding out the dusty old thing. I undid the clasps and gasped. It was packed, almost to bursting, with porcelain figurines. Each was wrapped in a soft cloth, carefully protected.

Ive been collecting these for Alice, all these years. I cant forget the look in her eyes, that day I smashed her whole collection to bits She put up with so much, that woman. Remember all those business trips? Id find figurines, wherever I went, for her. Theres a false bottomtake the money you find in there. Its all I managed to save. Give it to Alice. Ask her to forgive me. She was my true wife. Please, Simon, promise me youll deliver it to her.

I will, Patrick. You have my word. My throat caught; I knew Id soon be attending his last journey.

The letter for Alice is under my pillow, take it. I cant I cant see you right now. He turned away, facing the wall.

Alice was still living in her childhood town. Matthew was desperately ill, the doctors mystified, telling her that only treatment abroad could possibly help. I learnt this from a letter buried beneath Patricks pillow. It turned out shed kept in touch with her ex-husband by post, though he never wrote back, only she sent letters.

After the funeral, I set out to keep my promise to Patrick.

I met Alice at a small village station. Her face lit up when she saw me, and she pulled me into an embrace.

Oh, Simon! You look so much like Patrickhonestly, its uncanny.

I pressed the suitcase into her hands and spoke as Patrick had asked:

Alice, forgive your wayward husband. This is for you. Theres money and something else from Patrick insideyoull see when you get home. You were always his true wife. Please remember that.

We parted for the last time.

Some weeks later, I received a single letter from Alice.

Simonthank you, and thank Patrick too. I thank the Lord that Patrick was in my life, whatever our fate. Matthew and I sold the figurines for a fair pricea true collector sought them out. To be honest, I could never look at those pieces without sorrow. Each had been in Patricks own hands. Its such a shame he left so soon. With the money, we managed to move abroad, to Canada, where my sister had long urged me to come. There was nothing left holding me in Englandjust a faint hope that Patrick might one day call for us. He never did. Yet knowing he thought of me as his real wife, that means everything. Matthew is happy herehis health is finally improving. Farewell.

No return address was given.