He Hated His Wife. They Lived Together for Fifteen Years. For Fifteen Long Years He Saw Her Every Morning, Until One Day Her Petty Habits Drove Him Mad.

He despised his wife. They had lived together for fifteen years. Fifteen long years of seeing her every morning, yet for the past year, her smallest habits had begun to grate on him unbearably. One in particularlying in bed with her arms stretched out, she would say, “Good morning, sunshine! Today will be wonderful.” On the surface, it was an ordinary phrase, but her thin arms and her sleep-swollen face filled him with revulsion.

She would rise, walk to the window, and stare into the distance for a few seconds. Then shed remove her nightgown and head to the bathroom. Once, in the early days of their marriage, he had admired her body, her carefree spirit that sometimes crossed the line of propriety. Though her figure remained slender, the sight of her now irritated him. Once, he even considered shoving her to hurry her along, but he clenched his fists and only snapped, “Hurry up, Ive had enough!”

She took her time with life. She knew about his affair, even knew the woman hed been seeing for nearly three years. Time had buried the wounds to her pride, leaving only a dull ache of being unwanted. She forgave his aggression, his indifference, his desperate attempt to relive his youth. But she refused to let anyone steal her peaceshe lived deliberately, cherishing every moment.

She had made that decision the day she learned she was ill. The disease gnawed at her month by month and would soon win. At first, she wanted to tell everyoneshare the burden, ease the weight. But the hardest days she endured alone, grappling with the nearing end, and she resolved to stay silent. Her life ebbed away, yet with each passing day, she grew wiser in her role as an observer.

She found solace in a small libraryan hour and a halfs journey, but every day she navigated the narrow aisles beneath a sign the elderly librarian had labeled “Secrets of Life and Death,” searching for a book that might hold all the answers.

Meanwhile, he went to his mistress. There, everything was bright, warm, familiar. They had been together three years, and all that time, he “loved” her with a feverish obsessionjealous, guilt-ridden, unable to breathe when apart from her youthful body. Today, he arrived resolved: he would leave his wife. Why torment all three of them? He didnt love herhe hated her. A new happiness would begin here. He took his wifes photo from his wallet and, in a show of determination, tore it to shreds.

They agreed to meet at the restaurant where, six months earlier, they had celebrated their fifteenth anniversary. She arrived first. Before meeting her, he stopped at home, rummaging through drawers for divorce papers. In one, he found a dark blue folder hed never seen before. He ripped off the tape, expecting scandalonly to find stacks of medical reports, test results, certificates stamped with her name and initials.

Realization struck like lightning, and a cold sweat ran down his back. She was ill. He searched the diagnosis online. The screen displayed a terrifying line: “Six to eighteen months.” Checking the dates, he saw she had known for half a year. His mind clouded. Only one phrase echoed: “Six to eighteen months.”

Autumn was gloriousthe sun didnt scorch but warmed the soul. “What a strange, beautiful life,” she thought. For the first time since learning of her illness, she felt pity for herself.

She walked, watching people rejoicewinter lay ahead, then surely spring. She would never feel such things again. A wave of sorrow welled up inside and spilled over in tears.

He paced the room, struck for the first time by the fleeting nature of everything. He remembered her young, when they had just married, brimming with hope. He had loved her once. Suddenly, it all seemed lostfifteen years, as if they had never been. Yet it felt like everything still lay aheadhappiness, youth, life

In her final days, he surrounded her with care, never leaving her side, and experienced an extraordinary happiness. He feared losing her, would have given his life for her to stay. If anyone had reminded him that just a month ago he had hated her and longed for divorce, he would have said, “That wasnt me.”

He saw how hard she fought, how she wept at midnight, thinking he slept. He understood there was no crueler sentence than knowing the date of ones end. He watched her cling to the tiniest, stubborn hope.

She died two months later. He lined the path from their home to the cemetery with flowers. He wept like a child as they lowered the coffin, aging decades in days.

At home, beneath her pillow, he found a notea New Years wish she had written: “To be happy with him until the end of my days.” They say New Years wishes come true. Perhaps it was true, for that same year he had written, “To be free.”

Each got what they truly desiredas if it had all been done by their own will.