**The Closest Soul**
Life is a peculiar thing. You drift through the years in London, barely noticing how swiftly everything shifts—children grow, friends fade, and you yourself grow older. Yet there’s one constant, unchanging as the Thames: my wife, Eleanor. I didn’t realise it straightaway; it took decades for it to dawn on me. We’re no longer the young, carefree lovers we once were. She’s aged, changed—just as I have—but to me, she’s still the heart of my world, my home, my safe harbour.
Eleanor and I married nearly thirty years ago. Back then, I was certain I knew what love was. We were young, brimming with dreams. She was beautiful—long chestnut hair, eyes that sparkled like the Bristol Channel at dawn, and a smile that made my chest tighten. I imagined our life would be like a fairy tale: a house in the Cotswolds, children, adventures across Europe. Reality, though, had other plans. Work, bills, raising our son Oliver, then our daughter Imogen, financial strains, quarrels—it all swallowed us like a tide. There were moments I’d catch myself wondering why we were even still together.
The years rolled on, and I noticed how Eleanor changed. Silver threaded her hair, laughter lines mapped her face, and her figure wasn’t what it had been at twenty-five. She grew wearier, complained of aches, and the laugh I adored came less often. I hadn’t escaped time’s touch either—my hair thinned, my back ached, and the vigour of my youth had vanished. We were different people, and sometimes I swore a wall had risen between us. But then I understood: no matter what, Eleanor was the one person I couldn’t picture life without.
The realisation came unexpectedly. We were on the patio of our home in Bath, sipping tea as the sunset painted the sky in rose and gold. Eleanor was chatting about our neighbour’s row with her husband when she paused. She looked at me and said, “James, do you ever really listen?” I chuckled; she shook her head, but her eyes were warm. And in that moment, it struck me—this was happiness. Not grand gestures or lavish gifts, but simply us, together, despite everything.
I began to remember our life. How Eleanor held my hand when I lost my job in Manchester, terrified I couldn’t provide. How she stayed up nights when Oliver had scarlet fever, or wept with pride when Imogen graduated from Cambridge. She was there when my father passed, and when we laughed at silly jokes even as the world seemed to crumble. Through joy and sorrow, youth and age, she remained—my constant.
Sometimes, I hear my mates grumble about their wives. They say they’ve “grown apart,” that they’re tired of the nagging. I stay quiet, but inside, I think: they’ve missed the point. A wife isn’t just someone you share a house with. She’s the one who knows you best—who’s seen you at your worst and stayed. Eleanor knows I snore, despise black pudding, and retreat into silence when burdened. And I know she fears thunderstorms, adores daisies, and cries at cheesy rom-coms. We’re flawed, but we’re a team.
Now, with Oliver an engineer in Edinburgh and Imogen married (her first child due next spring), it’s just us again. We’re proud, though the house sometimes feels too quiet. But instead of dwelling on it, Eleanor’s already knitting tiny booties and planning the nursery. Watching her, I think: how extraordinary she is.
We hardly say “I love you” anymore. Perhaps because words aren’t needed. Love is brewing her morning coffee just how she likes it. It’s her draping a blanket over me when I doze in the armchair. It’s our silent walks in Hyde Park, her hand in mine, and her smile—still enough to quicken my pulse.
I don’t know how many years we have left. Life’s unpredictable, and I refuse to dwell on the bleak. But I know this: as long as Eleanor’s beside me, I’m home. She’s my hearth, my anchorage, my closest soul. And if I could relive my youth, I’d choose her again—wrinkles, silver hair, and all. Because no one else has ever mattered so deeply.
