My Dear Wife – “How have you managed to live with the same woman for so many years? What’s your secret?” My brother never missed the chance to ask these questions whenever he visited. “Love, and endless patience—that’s the whole secret,” I always replied. “That recipe isn’t for me. I love all women. Each one is a mystery. Living with a book you’ve already read? No, thanks,” my brother would smirk. My younger brother Peter married at eighteen. His bride, Asya, was ten years his senior—a sweet woman hopelessly in love with Peter for life, while Peter saw her only as a passing amusement. Asya moved into Peter’s family home, where seven relatives lived, and gave birth to a son, Mitya. She believed her happiness was finally complete. The young couple was given a tiny room, where Asya displayed her cherished collection of rare porcelain figurines—ten delicate treasures that everyone in the family knew meant the world to her. At the time, I myself was searching for the one woman to spend a lifetime with—a dream that ultimately came true. My wife and I have now been married over fifty years. Peter and Asya lasted ten years. Asya could boast of little—the devoted, compliant wife who loved her husband and son wholeheartedly. What more did Peter want? One night, Peter came home drunk, picking on Asya and making crude jokes. Sensing trouble, Asya quietly left with Mitya. Suddenly, there was a terrible crash—the sound of her precious collection shattering. She ran back to find all her treasured figurines in pieces, except for one that miraculously survived. Asya kissed it, eyes brimming with tears, and said nothing. From that day, a rift opened between them. Asya fulfilled her duties, but a spark was gone. Peter drank more, brought home questionable friends and women. Asya withdrew, becoming distant and unreachable. Peter neglected the family, and eventually, they parted ways—without shouting or accusations. Asya took Mitya and moved back to her hometown, leaving the lone surviving figurine behind as a memory. Peter wasn’t lonely for long; he threw himself into a reckless, untethered life of repeated marriages, heartbreaks, and drink. Though a brilliant economist—in-demand at universities, author of a textbook, with a sparkling future—he let it all slip away. At last, thinking he had settled down, our relieved family attended his simple wedding to a stunning woman with a seventeen-year-old son—a stepchild Peter underestimated, and who ultimately drove them to divorce five years later after much strife. Peter bounced from one romance to the next—Lily, Natalie, Sue—believing each was the one. But life had other plans. At fifty-three, Peter fell gravely ill. No women remained but his family. On his deathbed, he asked me, “Simon, there’s a suitcase under my bed—bring it here.” I opened it, stunned to find it packed with delicate porcelain figurines, each carefully wrapped. “I collected these for Asya—never forgot the silent reproach in her eyes when her collection was smashed. My poor wife endured plenty. There’s a hidden compartment with money—give it all to my dear wife. Ask her to forgive me. Promise you’ll do this, Simon.” I choked back tears and solemnly agreed. He pointed to an envelope under his pillow with Asya’s address. Though they hadn’t spoken in years, Asya had kept in touch, writing letters—never replied to, but always sent. After Peter’s funeral, I set off to find Asya. We met at a lonely train platform. She hugged me, “Oh Simon—you and Peter could be twins.” I handed her the suitcase, passed on Peter’s request for forgiveness and his last gifts. It was our final parting. Later, I received one last letter: “Simon, thank you and Peter for everything. I’m grateful to God that Peter was part of my life. Mitya and I sold the figurines to a real enthusiast and used the money to move to Canada—my sister had long invited us, and nothing kept me here. All that remained was hope Peter would call me back—he never did. But I am happy he always saw me as his true wife. Now Mitya is better, and I am content. Farewell.” She left no return address…

THE TRUE WIFE

How have you managed to survive so many years with one wife? Whats the trick? My brother would always fire these questions whenever he came over for a cuppa.

Love and a prodigious patience, thats all there is to it, Id reply, trotting out the usual answer.

Thats not for me, mate. I fancy all women. Each is a mystery. Living with a book youve already read? No, thanks, my brother Richard would grin, the rogue.

My younger brother, Peter, tied the knot at eighteen. His bride was ten years oldera sweet woman named Emily, whod fallen for Peter, heart and soul, for life. But for Peter, Emily was just a brief dalliance.

Emily settled into Peters family home, a house packed with seven other relatives. She gave birth to a son, Matthew. Emily was certain shed caught her happiness at last. The young couple got a matchbox-sized room of their own.

Emily doted on her marvellous collection of porcelain figurinesten rare beautiesgiving them the place of honour atop a battered old dresser. The whole sprawling family knew how dear those fragile knick-knacks were to her. Shed often stand, gazing lovingly, rearranging them with reverence.

At the time, I myself was shopping around for a wife, surveying the eligible bachelorettes. I wanted to find the one and only for a lifetime. Spoiler alert: I did. Been married to my Lucy for over fifty years now.

Peter and Emily lasted ten years. Truth be told, Emily hadnt much to boast of from the arrangement. She did her utmost to be a good wife, loved her husband and son fiercely. She was quiet and gentle, the sort whod do anything to keep the peace. But for Peter, that just wasnt enough.

One evening, Peter returned home a bit the worse for drink. Something about Emily, her look or manner, rubbed him wrong. He started picking at her, making cruel jokes, grabbing her by the arm. Sensing the gathering storm, Emily wisely took Matthew and ducked out to the garden. Suddenly, a tremendous crash rang out. Emily knew at onceher figurines!

She dashed back inside and could hardly believe her eyes. Her precious collection was a mess of pitiful shards on the floor, except for one figurine that miraculously survived. Emily picked it up, cradled it, kissed it gently. She said not a word to her lout of a husbandonly her tear-filled eyes spoke.

From then on, a rift opened up between Emily and Peter. I dare say she began living in her own world. She continued with all her wifely dutiesmodel housekeeper, caring motherbut it was all mechanical, joyless.

Peter drank more and more, and soon his circle included women of questionable taste and dubious friends. Emily suspected everything but kept her lips sealed, withdrawing into herself with a glassy-eyed detachment. Peter hardly came home, abandoning the family completely. Emily understood, at last, you cant chase the wind across the moors. Eventually, Peter and Emily divorcedno fireworks, no drama, just a quiet parting. Emily left with Matthew, returning to her home town. The lone surviving figurine stood forlorn on the dresserEmily left it behind, a memento.

Peter wasnt exactly brought low by the split. He relished his new wild, responsibility-free life. Falling in love with new women was easy; breaking things off, even easier. He charged headlong toward disaster: married and divorced three times, took to drinking until he passed out nightly. The irony? He was a brilliant economist, worked at a well-respected institution, often consulted across the country. Even published a textbook. Everyone predicted great things. Alcohol and chaos made sure those dreams never materialised.

Our family thought, at one point, Peter had got a griphed met a “dazzling” new woman and proposed. We attended the modest wedding. The brides seventeen-year-old son was the talk of the gathering; everyone sensed that Peter and his new stepson wouldnt mix. Too dissimilar, too alien. Peter ignored the omen. Predictably, within five years, Peter and stepson were at each others throatscouldve ended in bloodshed. No peace was ever found there.

Afterwards, a procession of women breezed through Peters lifeOlivia, Daisy, Grace Each time, he was besotted and swore this was forever. But fate had a cruel sense of humour. At fifty-three, Peter became gravely ill. By then, no women remained. They all drifted away, quietly and forever. My sisters and I were left to look after Peter as he lay bedridden.

Simon, Peter croaked one day, theres a suitcase under the bed. Hand it here.

I got the dusty suitcase out from under the bed, opened itand nearly dropped it. The thing was packed with porcelain figurines, each one lovingly wrapped in a tea towel.

I gathered these for my Emily, Peter confessed. Ill never forget the silent look she gave me after her collection was smashed to bits. She really put up with so much from me. Remember how I was always traipsing around Britain for work? I picked up figurines wherever I could. Theres a false bottom in the casetake the money from there. Its all my savings. Give it to Emily. Ask her to forgive me. We shant meet again. Simon, promise me youll deliver everything to Emily.

Alright, Pete, I promise, my throat tightened with emotion. I knew my brother was slipping away for good.

Theres an envelope under my pillow with her address, Peter murmured, turning away, unable or unwilling to face me.

Emily still lived in her childhood town. Matthew was ill with something mysteriousdoctors shrugged: Try Europe, maybe theres help there. I found all this out from a letter under Peters pillow. Apparently, Emily kept in touch with Peter, but only through lettersshe wrote, he never replied.

After the funeral, I prepared for my journey, determined to keep my promise.

I met Emily at some country station. She was delighted to see me and gave me a big hug.

Oh Simon, you and Peterpeas in a pod, you two! she exclaimed.

I handed Emily the suitcase, making my apology on Peters behalf as promised.

Emily, forgive your wayward husband. This is for youtheres money inside, and something else. Peter wanted you to have it. At home, have a look. You were Peters true wife. Never forget that.

That was our last meeting.

I got only one letter from Emily after that.

Simon, thank youand thank Peterfor everything. Im grateful to God Peter was in my life. Matthew and I managed to sell the figurines to a real collectorcouldnt bear to keep them, knowing each had been touched by my beloved Peter. Its sad he left so soon. With the money, we moved to Canadamy sister had been inviting us for ages. There was nothing tying me to England anymore. I suppose I always hoped Peter would call for me. He didnt But Im happy he thought of me as his true wife. That means he never stopped caring. Matthew likes it here, his health has improved. Goodbye.

No return address.