**Diary Entry October 14th**
I despised my wife. We had been married for fifteen years. Fifteen long years of seeing her every morning, and over the last year, every little habit of hers had begun to grate on my nerves. One in particular: stretching her arms out while still lying in bed, shed say, *Good morning, sunshine! Todays going to be lovely.* A harmless phrase, but her thin wrists and puffy, sleep-swollen face filled me with disgust.
Shed rise, walk to the window, and stare into the distance for a few seconds. Then shed slip off her nightgown and head to the bathroom. Once, in the early days, Id been captivated by her body, by the careless freedom that sometimes bordered on impropriety. Though she was still slender, the sight of her now only irritated me. Once, I even had the urge to shove her just to hurry her alongbut I clenched my fists and snapped instead: *Hurry up, Ive had enough!*
She never hurried. She knew about my affairhad even met the girl Id been seeing for nearly three years. Time had buried the wounds to her pride, leaving only a quiet sadness, the ache of being unwanted. She forgave my temper, my indifference, my desperate grasp at reliving youth. But she refused to let anyone steal her peaceshe lived deliberately, treasuring each moment.
That was how she chose to live after learning she was ill. The sickness gnawed at her month by month, and soon, it would win. At first, shed wanted to tell everyoneshare the burden, ease the weight. But she weathered the worst days alone, facing the end with quiet resolve. Her life was slipping away, yet with each day came a strange, detached wisdom.
She found comfort in a little libraryan hour and a halfs journey, but every day, shed weave through the narrow aisles beneath a sign the elderly librarian had scrawled: *The Mysteries of Life and Death.* She searched for a book that might answer all her questions.
Meanwhile, I went to my lover. Everything there was bright, warm, familiar. Three years wed been meeting, and all that time, Id loved her in a twisted wayjealous, guilty, suffocating whenever we were apart. Today, I arrived with a decision: *Im leaving my wife.* Why torment all three of us? I didnt love herI hated her. A new happiness awaited. I pulled my wifes photo from my wallet and tore it to shreds, as if that sealed my resolve.
Wed agreed to meet at the restaurant where, six months earlier, wed celebrated our fifteenth anniversary. She arrived first. Before joining her, Id stopped at home, rifling through drawers for divorce papers. In one, I found a dark blue folder Id never seen before. I tore off the tape, expecting some damning secretbut instead, there were stacks of medical reports, test results, official stamps. All bore her name.
The realisation hit me like a bolt of lightning, cold sweat prickling down my back. *She was ill.* I scrambled online, typing the diagnosis. The screen flashed back: *Six to eighteen months.* I checked the datessix months had already passed. My mind went blank except for that one phrase: *Six to eighteen months.*
Autumn was beautifulthe sun gentle, warming the soul. *What strange, lovely lives we lead,* she must have thought. For the first time since her diagnosis, she felt a pang of pity for herself.
Walking, she watched people laughing, obliviouswinter was coming, but spring would follow. She wouldnt live to see it. The grief welled up inside her and spilled over in tears
I paced the room, struck for the first time by how fleeting everything was. I remembered her youngfreshly married, full of hope. *I had loved her once.* Suddenly, it all felt lost: fifteen years, as if theyd never been. Ahead lay everythinghappiness, youth, life
In those final days, I hovered by her side, overwhelmed by an unfamiliar joy. Terrified of losing her, Id have given my life just to keep her. If someone had reminded me that a month earlier, Id hated her and dreamt of divorce, Id have said, *That wasnt me.*
I watched her struggle to let go, heard her cry at night, believing I slept. There was no worse punishment, I realised, than knowing your own end. Yet she clung to hope, frail but stubborn.
She died two months later. I lined the path from our house to the churchyard with flowers. I wept like a child at her funeral, aged years in weeks.
At home, beneath her pillow, I found a notea New Years wish shed written: *To be happy with him until the end.* They say New Years wishes come true. Perhaps they dobecause that same year, I wrote: *To be free.*
In the end, we both got what we truly wantedas if the universe had granted our deepest desires.
