My Dear Wife – When my brother would visit, he always asked, “How have you managed to live with the same wife for so many years? What’s your secret?” “Love and endless patience—that’s all there is to it,” I’d always reply. “Not for me,” he’d laugh. “I love all women—each one’s a mystery. Why live with an open book?” My younger brother, Peter, married at eighteen; his bride, Anna, was ten years his senior. She fell in love with Peter for life, but for him, it was only a fling. Anna moved into Peter’s crowded family home, treasured her collection of porcelain figurines, and believed she’d caught happiness by the tail. I, meanwhile, was hoping to find the one woman to love forever—and I did, marrying my wife over fifty years ago. Anna and Peter lasted ten years. She gave her all to their marriage, but he grew restless, drinking more, staying out with questionable friends, and finally, smashing her precious figurines in a drunken rage—leaving only one intact. After they divorced, Anna and her son returned to her hometown, and Peter spiraled deeper, remarrying and divorcing, his once-promising future lost to drink and chaos. Years later, terminally ill and alone, Peter asked me to deliver a suitcase filled with porcelain figurines and his savings to Anna—his final apology for all she’d endured. I found Anna, now caring for her ill son, and gave her Peter’s last gift. She thanked us in a letter—and sold the figurines to fund a new life in Canada for herself and her son. “I’m grateful that Peter considered me his dear wife,” she wrote. “Perhaps he never stopped loving me after all.”

MY DEAREST WIFE

How on earth do you manage to live with the same wife all these years? Whats your secret? My brother would ask me this every time he popped round for a cuppa.

Love, and a great deal of patience. Thats all there is to it, Id reply, always the same answer.

That recipes not for me, Im afraid! I adore all women. Every one of thems a riddle to me. Ive no interest in living with a book Ive already finished, hed smirk.

My younger brother, Peter, married when he was just eighteen. His bride, Alice, was a decade his senior. Sweet girl, hopelessly smitten, loved Peter as if he were the sun itself. But Peter only toyed with her affections.

Alice moved in to Peters home, where another seven of our kin lived in various rooms. She soon gave birth to a little boy, Michael, and believed shed caught her happiness at last. The newlyweds got a tiny room of their own.

Alice treasured her collection of porcelain figurinesthey were her pride and joy. Ten rare pieces, displayed on the old sideboard for everyone to see. All of us knew how much those delicate ornaments meant to her. Shed often stand gazing at them, lost in admiration.

Back then, I was still searching for that one special woman to share my life with, and I can say I found hermy wife and I have shared over fifty years together.

Peter stayed with Alice for ten years. Alice gave her all to that marriageshe adored her husband, doted on their son, and was the picture of a devoted, mild, and agreeable wife. What more could Peter want?

One evening Peter came home tipsy. Somethingor nothingput him in a mood about Alices appearance or manner. He started nitpicking, making crude jokes, roughly grabbing her arm. Sensing where it was heading, Alice quietly gathered Michael and slipped outside into the garden. Suddenly, a great crash echoed from the house. Alice knew at once what had happenedit was the shattering of her beloved figurines.

She rushed in and saw her treasured collection scattered and broken on the floor, nothing left but pitiful fragmentssave for one lone figure, somehow unharmed. Alice picked it up, kissed it gently. She said nothing to Peter, but her eyes brimmed with tears.

From then on, a crack opened up between Alice and Peter. To my mind, she began to live outside our family, at least in her heart. She carried on her duties, was still a respectable wife and capable homemaker, but everything seemed strained, done out of obligation.

Peter took to drinking more. Soon enough, he was spending time with loud-mouthed women and all sorts of unsavoury friends. Alice seemed to realise the hopelessness but withdrew into herself, becoming distant and rather lost. Peter came home less and less, abandoning his family almost entirely. Observing his reckless ways, Alice understood that chasing the wind would get her nowhere. In the end, she and Peter divorced quietly, without scenes or reproaches. Alice left for her own home town with Michael. The only figurine left behind stood solitary on the sideboarda faint trace of her.

Peter didnt bother to mourn the loss. He embarked on a wild, unruly existence. Girls came and wentLinda, Rachel, Sophie He loved each, or so he told himself, and thought hed settle down with every one in turn, but never did.

Though still working as an economist at a university, and even having his own textbook published, his prospects withered under the weight of his drinking and aimless living. Only ruin followed.

At one point, it seemed Peter might be settling down; he planned to wed another remarkable woman. We were invited to the modest ceremony. She had a seventeen-year-old son, and it was plain even to the least observant that Peter and the boy would never see eye to eye.

They were just too different, too much at odds. Peter didnt take it seriouslyand it turned out, the stepson was the main cause of their break-up five years later. There were blow-ups and near fights, and it all ended in ruin.

After that, fleeting relationships became Peters norm. But then, at fifty-three, he became fatally ill. By then, not a single woman remained by his side. It fell to me and our sisters to look after him in his final days.

Simon, pass me my suitcaseits under the bed, he whispered, barely able to speak.

I reached under, pulled out a battered suitcase, and opened it up. I was stunnedit was full of porcelain figurines, each carefully wrapped in a soft cloth.

These were for my Alice. Ive never forgotten the way she looked at me when her collection was smashed. She put up with so much from me. Remember how I traveled the country on work trips? I bought these wherever I could. Theres a false bottompull out the money. Its all my savings. Give it to my true wife. Let her forgive me. Well never meet again. Simon, swear youll see its done, Peter turned to face the wall.

Alright, Peter, I swear it, I choked, knowing this was the end.

Theres an envelope with her address under my pillowtake it, he murmured, never turning back.

Alice still lived in her childhood town. Michael was gravely ill, some rare disease. The doctors urged her to seek help abroad if she could. I read this in a letter under Peters pillow. Turns out, Alice had kept in touch with her former husband, but only by letterhe never replied.

After Peters funeral, I set about carrying out his wish.

I met Alice at a chilly station. She was truly glad to see me, hugged me tightly.

Oh, Simon, youre so like Peter! The very image of him.

I handed over the suitcase, repeated Peters apology along with his message.

Alice, forgive your wayward husband. This is for youfrom Peter. Youll see whats inside at home. He always thought of you as his dearest wiferemember that.

We parted for good.

Later, I got one letter from her.

Simon, thank youand Peterfor everything. I thank God Peter was in my life. We sold the figurines and found someone who truly valued them. I couldnt bear to look at them myself, since each had passed through Peters hands. Its a pity he left us so soon. With the money, weve managed to move to Canadamy sisters long invited us. Nothing tied me to England anymore. I kept hoping Peter would call us back, but he never did. Still, Im happy to know he counted me as his true wife. In a way, he never quite let me go. By the way, Michael is much better herehe loves it. Farewell.

No return address.

In my heart, I realisedour actions echo long after we think them forgotten. What is done in love and regret can outlast even the bitterest ends, gently nudging the world forever onward.