He Hated His Wife. Hated Her… They Spent 15 Years Together, Fifteen Mornings Waking Up Side by Side—But Only in the Last Year Did Her Habits Begin to Drive Him Mad, Especially One: Stretching Out Her Arms in Bed and Sleepily Saying, “Good Morning, Sunshine! Today Will Be a Wonderful Day.” What Seemed a Simple Phrase, Her Slim Arms, Her Sleepy Face, Now Filled Him with Disgust. She’d Rise, Walk Past the Window, Gaze Out for a While, Then Slip off Her Nightdress and Head to the Bathroom. Early in Marriage, He’d Adored Her Body, Its Natural Confidence That Seemed Almost Indecent—But Now, Though She Was Still Beautiful, Her Nakedness Made Him Angry. Once, He Even Considered Pushing Her to Hurry Her Morning Routine but Only Managed a Gruff: “Get a Move On—I’ve Had Enough!” She Refused to Rush or Let His Affectionless Hostility Change Her Pace—She Knew About His Affair, Even Recognized the Young Woman He’d Been Seeing for Three Years. Time Dulles the Sharp Sting of Pride, Leaving Only a Lingering Sense of Uselessness. She Forgave Him—the Aggression, the Neglect, His Need to Relive His Youth—But She Wouldn’t Let Him Rob Her of Living Mindfully, Cherishing Each Moment. She’d Made Up Her Mind When She Learned She Was Ill. The Disease Was Slowly Consuming Her; It Would Win Soon. Her First Urge Was to Confess to Everyone—To Lessen the Brutal Truth by Sharing the Burden with Loved Ones. Yet She Endured the Hardest Day Alone, Accepting Her Fate, and Then Resolved to Remain Silent. Life Slipped Away, Yet Each Day She Gained the Wisdom of a True Observer. She Found Solace in a Quiet English Countryside Library, a Ninety-Minute Walk Each Way. Every Day, She’d Hide in the Narrow Aisles Marked “Life & Death’s Secrets” by the Elderly Librarian and Lose Herself in Books She Hoped Contained Every Answer. He’d Go to His Lover’s Flat, Where Everything Felt Warm, Bright, Familiar. Their Love Affair Had Grown Wild—Three Years of Passion, Jealousy, Heartache, and Asphyxiating Desire. Today He Came With a Decision: Divorce. Why Torment All Three of Them? He Didn’t Love His Wife—No, He Hated Her—and Here, He Could Start Fresh, Find Happiness. He Tried to Recall His Feelings for His Wife, but There Was Nothing—He Couldn’t Even Remember Caring for Her on That First Day. He Pulled Out a Photo of Her from His Wallet, Tore It Into Pieces—Determined to End It. They Arranged to Meet at the Restaurant Where, Six Months Earlier, They’d Celebrated Fifteen Years as Husband and Wife. She Arrived First. He Stopped Home to Find the Divorce Papers, Ransacking Drawers in a Panic Until He Spotted a Dark Blue Folder He’d Never Seen Before. He Ripped Off the Seal, Expecting Dirty Secrets—But Found Only Medical Reports, Official Documents. His Wife’s Name on Every Page. Realisation Struck Like Lightning; She Was Ill. He Googled the Diagnosis: “6–18 Months Life Expectancy.” Six Months Had Already Passed. He Remembered Little of What Happened Next—Only the Words “6–18 Months” Looping Relentlessly in His Mind. She Waited for Forty Minutes. No Answer from His Phone. She Paid the Bill and Went Outside. The Autumn Weather Was Glorious—The Sun Gentle, Comforting. “Life Is Beautiful, the World So Wonderful, So Warm.” For the First Time Since Her Diagnosis, She Felt Sorry for Herself. She’d Found the Strength to Hide Her Secret from Everyone, Sparing Them the Pain at the Cost of Her Own Crumbling Life. After This Year, She Would Be Nothing but a Memory. She Wandered Down the Street, Watching Bright Faces Filled With Hope Of Winters and Springs Yet to Come—As If the Future Were Theirs To Shape. She Would Never Know That Feeling Again. Bitterness Swelled and Burst Forth as Tears She Couldn’t Stop… He Paced the Room. For the First Time, He Felt The Swift Passage of Life as a Physical Ache. He Remembered His Wife Young, Full of Hope When They First Met—He’d Loved Her Then. In That Moment, Fifteen Years Vanished: Happiness, Youth, and Life Still Ahead. In Her Final Weeks, He Became Devoted, At Her Side Every Hour, Overcome by a Joy He’d Never Known. He Was Terrified She’d Leave—He Would Have Given His Own Life to Save Hers. Had Someone Reminded Him Of His Hatred Just a Month Ago, He’d Have Sworn: “That Wasn’t Me.” He Witnessed Her Battle to Say Goodbye, Weeping Secretly at Night When She Thought He Slept—He Understood No Punishment Was Worse Than Knowing Your Days Are Numbered. He Saw Her Fight for Every Moment, Grasping Even the Smallest Hope. She Died Two Months Later. He Covered the Path from Home to Cemetery in Flowers. He Wept Like a Child as Her Coffin Was Lowered—He Felt Centuries Older. At Home, Beneath Her Pillow, He Found a New Year’s Wish She Had Written: “To Be Happy With Him Until My Last Day.” They Say All New Year’s Wishes Come True—Perhaps They Do, For That Year He Wrote: “To Be Free.” In the End, Each Got Exactly What, It Seemed, They Had Wished For…

He loathed his wife. Loathed her.

Theyd spent fifteen years togetherfifteen whole years in which he saw her each morning, but only in the past year had her habits begun to make his skin crawl. There was one morning ritual that especially grated on him: shed stretch out her arms and, still lingering in bed, cheerfully say, Good morning, sunshine! Its going to be a beautiful day. It was an ordinary greeting, yet her thin arms and half-asleep face filled him with aversion.

She would get up, walk slowly over to the window, and gaze outside for a few seconds. Then shed take off her nightdress and head to the bathroom. In the early days of their marriage, hed admired her body, enchanted by her freedom, her almost scandalous lack of self-consciousness. Even now, though shed kept her figure, the sight of her undressing stirred anger within him. Once, hed even considered pushing her to hurry her along, but instead, he only managed a gruff, For goodness sake, hurry up! This is ridiculous.

She never rushed, never chased after life. She knew all about his affair, even the young woman hed been seeing for nearly three years. But over time her pride had healed, leaving only a lingering sadness of not being needed. She forgave him his bursts of anger, his lack of attention, his desperate grasp at lost youth. But she wouldnt let him disturb her quiet way of living, her time, her understanding of every moment.

Shed chosen to live this way since she had learned she was ill. Each month the illness devoured her, and soon it would win. At first, shed wanted nothing more than to tell everyone the truthconfess her illness, break the burden into pieces and share it among her family. But the hardest day was the first, when shed sat alone and faced the reality of her coming death. The second, she made peace with her choice to keep the secret. Her life slipped away, and with each day she found the wisdom of someone who learns simply to watch the world.

She found solace in a small village library, an hour and a halfs journey from home. Every day shed seclude herself among the narrow aisles, beneath battered labels like Mysteries of Life and Death, scribbled on the shelves by the ancient librarian, and shed discover some book that promised answers she longed for.

He, meanwhile, went to his lovers house. Everything there was vivid, warm, and welcoming. Theyd been together for three years, and he adored her with a kind of madness. He would be possessive, even cruel at times, alternately lowering and debasing himself. He felt he couldnt breathe when he was away from her young body.

Today, entering her flat, he felt a sudden resolution: divorce. Why make all three of them miserable? He didnt love his wifemore than that, he hated her. Here, with his lover, he could start anew, finally be happy. He tried to remember the affection hed once felt for his wife, but the memories were hollow. In his mind, shed always irritated him, from day one. To cement his decision, he pulled her photograph from his wallet and tore it into tiny pieces.

Theyd agreed to meet at a restaurantthe same one where, six months before, theyd celebrated their fifteenth wedding anniversary. She arrived first. Reluctantly, he stopped at the house to find the divorce papers, overturning drawers and spilling contents to the floor in his agitated search.

One drawer revealed a dark blue, sealed folder hed never noticed before. He knelt on the floor, ripped off the tape, and braced for anythingperhaps a sheaf of incriminating photos. Instead, he found test results, NHS stamps, medical letters and reports, all in his wifes name and initials.

Realisation struck him like an electric shock, a chill ran down his spine. She was ill! He rushed to his laptop, typed the diagnosis into the search bar, and a dreadful sentence appeared: 6 to 18 months. He checked the dates: half a year had passed since the diagnosis. What happened next blurred in his memory, but one phrase kept tormenting him: 6 to 18 months.

She waited at the restaurant for forty minutes. Her phone rang out unanswered. Eventually she settled the billforty-two poundsbefore stepping out into the autumn sunshine. The day was gloriousgolden light, gently warming her soul, not burning. Isnt it wonderful to be alive, to be here on Earth, beneath the sun, by the woods?

For the first time since learning of her illness, she was overwhelmed by self-pity. Shed found the strength to keep this terrible secret from her husband, her parents, and her friends. Shed tried to spare them, at the cost of her own battered life. Soon, there would be nothing left of her except a memory.

She strolled along the street, watching peoples bright eyes, brimming with hope for all that lay aheadknowing that after winter, spring would certainly come. She realised shed never feel that way again. Bitterness welled up inside her and spilled out in an endless stream of tears.

He stormed about the house, feelingperhaps for the first time in his lifethe crushing brevity of existence. He thought back to when they first met, the hope that filled their youth. He had loved her once. In that moment it seemed the past fifteen years had vanished, and all lay aheadhappiness, youth, life itself

In those last days, he surrounded her with care, never leaving her side for even an hour, experiencing a happiness hed never imagined. He dreaded her leaving, would have given anythingoffered his own lifeif only she could have stayed. Had someone reminded him that only a month ago he had hated his wife and dreamt of divorce, he would have replied, That wasnt me.

He watched her struggle to let go of life, saw her weeping at night when she thought he slept. He understood there is no punishment more fearful than to know the time of your own end. He watched her fighting on, clinging to even the feeblest hope.

She died two months later. The road from house to churchyard was buried beneath flowers. He wept like a child at the grave, feeling a thousand years older.

At home, beneath her pillow, he found a small note, a wish shed written at New Year: To be happy with Him until the end of my days. They say all New Years wishes come true. Perhaps that is true, for that same year hed written: To be free.

Each received what they thought they wanted.