The One and Only Wife “How do you manage to live with the same wife for so many years? What’s your secret?” my brother would always ask whenever he visited. “Love and a lot of patience. That’s the real secret,” I always replied. “That recipe isn’t for me. I love all women—each is a mystery. But living with a book I’ve already read? No thanks,” my brother would grin. My younger brother Peter got married at eighteen. His bride, Alice, was ten years older—a kind-hearted woman who fell deeply in love with Peter for life. But for Peter, she was just a fleeting amusement. Alice settled in our crowded family home, giving birth to a son, Michael. She believed happiness was finally in her grasp. The young couple got a tiny back room. Alice cherished her porcelain figurine collection—ten rare pieces. She gave them pride of place on an old dresser, and our whole extended family knew how much they meant to her. At the time, I was still looking for my one and only—someone to spend my life with. Spoiler: my dream came true. I’ve now been married to my wife for over fifty years. Peter and Alice lasted ten years. Not much for Alice to boast about—she tried to be a good wife, loved her husband and son with all her heart, meek and compliant. But Peter was restless. One night, Peter came home drunk and started picking on Alice, making crude jokes, grabbing her by the arms. Sensing trouble, Alice quietly left the room with Michael. Suddenly, a terrible crash. She instantly knew: the sound of her treasured figurines shattering. She rushed back and couldn’t believe her eyes—all her precious pieces smashed, except one. She picked up the lone survivor, kissed it, but said nothing to her destructive husband. Only her tear-filled eyes spoke of her pain. From that moment, a rift formed between Peter and Alice. In her mind, Alice lived outside the marriage. She did her duties, but without warmth. Peter began to drink more. Soon, vulgar friends and girlfriends gathered around. Alice kept silent, turning inwards. Peter came home less and less. Alice eventually realized you can’t chase the wind. They divorced quietly—no yelling, no accusations. Alice took Michael and returned to her childhood home. The surviving figurine sat alone on the dresser, left behind as a memory. Peter didn’t mope. He launched into a life of wild parties, easy flings, and even easier breakups. He married and divorced three more times, drank heavily, yet still worked at a college and was a respected economist—he even wrote a textbook. Everyone predicted a brilliant future for him, until his lifestyle ruined everything. Years later, we thought Peter had finally settled down—he decided to marry a “stunning” woman, who brought a 17-year-old son into the marriage. Everyone saw disaster coming; Peter ignored the signs. The stepson would end up being the cause of their breakup after five years of constant fighting. Afterwards, Peter bounced from woman to woman—Lily, Natalie, Sarah—all loved and adored, each supposedly the one. But fate intervened. At fifty-three, Peter fell ill. By then, all the women had faded away. My sisters and I cared for bedridden Peter. “Simon, under my bed—there’s a suitcase. Bring it here,” Peter struggled out the words. I pulled out a dusty suitcase and gasped—it was full of porcelain figurines, each wrapped in linen. “I collected these for my Alice. I can never forget the look in her eyes when I shattered her collection. I dragged her through hell. Remember my business trips? I bought figurines wherever I could. There’s a false bottom—take the money, it’s all my savings. Give it to Alice. Tell her I’m sorry. We won’t see each other again. Promise me, Simon.” “I promise, Peter,” I choked out, realizing my brother was slipping away. “Her address is in an envelope under my pillow,” he added, turning to face the wall. Alice still lived in her hometown. Michael was ill; doctors suggested seeking treatment abroad. I learned this from Alice’s letter under Peter’s pillow—they’d been in touch by mail, though only Alice wrote. After the funeral, I traveled to fulfill Peter’s last wish. I met Alice at a small out-of-the-way station. She was overjoyed to see me. “Oh, Simon, you and Peter look so alike!” I handed her the suitcase and Peter’s apology. “Alice, forgive your wayward husband. This is for you—money, and something else from him. You were Peter’s one and only wife. Never forget.” We said our final goodbyes. Later, I received one letter from her. “Simon, thank you and Peter for everything. I am grateful that Peter was in my life. Michael and I sold the figurines; a true collector bought them. I couldn’t bear to see them—they’d all passed through Peter’s hands. With the money, we were able to move to Canada. Nothing kept me at home anymore. I always hoped Peter would call for us. He never did… But I’m happy he always saw me as his one true wife. Michael likes it here, and feels much better. Goodbye.” There was no return address…

MY DEAR WIFE

How on earth do you manage to stick with the same wife all these years? Whats your secret? My brother, every time he visited, would ask me this.

Love and an awful lot of patience. Thats all there is to it, Id always reply in exactly the same manner.

That recipe isnt for me. I love all women. Each one is a riddle to me. Why live with a book youve already read? my brother would smirk, raising his glass.

My younger brother, Peter, married at eighteen. His bride, Julia, was ten years his senior. Sweet Julia fell for Peter with her whole heart and soul for life. But, to Peter, it was nothing but a fleeting amusement.

Julia soon made herself at home in Peters family house among seven other relatives and gave birth to their son, Matthew. She truly believed happiness was finally hers to hold. The young couple were given a tiny box room to call their own.

Julia had a marvellous collection of porcelain figurines which she treasured more than anything. Her set included ten rare pieces, proudly arranged atop the old sideboard. Everyone in the family knew how precious those delicate figurines were to Julia. Shed often stop, study, and admire them with genuine affection.

At that time, I myself was on the verge of settling down, eyeing the young women nearby, determined to find my one and only. In the end, fate granted me my wish. My wife and I have now been married for over fifty years.

Peter and Julia lived together for ten years. Julia couldnt boast about much in that marriage. She did everything she could to be a good wife and dearly loved her husband and son. Meek, gentle, compliantwhat more could Peter have wanted?

One evening, Peter came home a little the worse for wear. He took an immediate dislike to something in Julias manner and started picking at her, cracking cruel jokes and grabbing her by the arms. Anticipating trouble, Julia quietly slipped out, taking young Matthew with her into the garden. Suddenly, there was a tremendous crash. Instantly, Julia knewthe porcelain figurines. She dashed inside and could hardly believe her eyes.

Her prized collection lay shattered on the floor, reduced to pitiful shards. Only one figure had survived by some miracle. Julia rushed to it, carefully picked it up, and kissed it. She said nothing to her brute of a husband, but her eyes filled with tears.

From that moment, a rift opened between Peter and Julia. I think Julia lived in her mind somewhere far from her marriage after that. She still went through all the motionsa model wife, an excellent homemakerbut now everything was forced, without a flicker of passion.

Peter started drinking more heavily. Soon vulgar and unpleasant women began to appear in his company, along with some unsavoury friends. Julia saw it all but kept silent, retreating further into herself. She became withdrawn, restless, and unanchored. Peter appeared at home less and less, neglecting his own family entirely. Finally, Julia realised its no use chasing wind across the fields. Eventually, she and Peter divorcedno scenes, no shouting, no mutual accusations. Julia and Matthew returned to her home town. The one surviving figurine stood alone on the sideboard, left behind as a silent memory.

Peter didnt fall into despair. He embraced a life of careless abandon, free from all restraint or responsibility. My brother fell in and out of love easily, and just as easily let go. He seemed to be heading for disaster. Peter married and divorced three times. He enjoyed drinking until he passed out, yet still managed to work as a successful economist at an institute. He was regularly invited for consultations across the country and even published a textbook in his name. Everyone predicted a brilliant future for him. But drink and chaos dashed those hopes.

Then, the family thought Peter might finally be calming down and pulling himself together. We all breathed a sigh of relief. He decided to marry an astonishing woman. We were invited to a modest wedding. The bride had a seventeen-year-old son. It was clear to everyone that the stepson and Peter would never get on.

They were too alien, too different. Peter ignored this, thinking it wouldnt matter. He didnt seem to realise that by marrying the woman, he was marrying her baggage too. In the end, the stepson was the cause of their split five years later. Peter and the boy nearly came to blows. Trouble was inevitable, and they never found common ground.

After that parted a procession of current women through Peters lifeLily, Olivia, Grace He fell in love with each, adored them, convinced himself each time this was it.

But life had its own agenda. At fifty-three, Peter fell seriously ill. By then, not a single beloved woman remained at his side. All had quietly and permanently disappeared. It was my sisters and I who cared for bedridden Peter.

Simon, theres a suitcase under my bed. Would you fetch it? Peters speech and movement were weak.

I ducked down, pulled out a dusty case, opened itand gasped. It was crammed full of porcelain figurines, every one wrapped in a soft cloth, clearly to protect the fragile contents.

These, I was collecting for my Julia, Peter murmured. I never could forget the silent reproach in her eyes when she saw her collection smashed to bits. Lord, I put her through hardships. Remember when Id travel round the country for work? I bought figurines in every place I could. The case has a false bottomtake the money from there. Its all Ive saved. Give it to my dear wife. Perhaps shell forgive me. You must promise, Simon, that youll pass everything on to Julia, Peter turned his face to the wall.

All right, Peter, I promise, I said, my throat tight. I knew my brother was leaving us, filled with regrets he would carry away forever.

Theres an envelope with Julias address under my pillow. Take it, Peter never turned back to look at me. He couldnt.

Julia still lived in her childhood town. Matthew had fallen ill with a strange disease. The doctors were at a loss, advising her to try for help abroad, in Europe perhaps. I learned all this from a letter Julia had sent Peter, which was hidden beneath his pillow. It turned out Julia had always kept in touch with her former husband, at least by letter. Only Julia wrotePeter never replied.

After burying my brother, I prepared for the journey to fulfil Peters last wish.

I met Julia at a small countryside station. She was delighted to see me, gave me a heartfelt hug.

Oh Simon, you look so much like Peter! You could be twins.

I handed her the suitcase and made my apology, as Id promised Peter.

Julia, forgive your hapless husband. This is for youtheres money and a few other things from Peter. Look at them when youre at home, all right? To Peter, you were always his dear wife. Please remember that.

We parted forever.

I received just one letter from Julia.

Simon, thank you, and thank Peter, for everything. I thank God Peter was part of my life. We sold the figurinesMatthew and I found a real collector who appreciated them. I honestly couldnt bear to look at them anymore; every single one had passed through Peters hands. Its a shame he left us so soon. The money let us move to Canadamy sisters been asking us for ages. There was nothing left for us at home and I was hoping Peter would call us over someday. He never did, but Im glad he always thought of me as his wife. It means he never gave up on me completely. By the way, Matthew likes it here. Hes much better now. Farewell.

No return address was given.