Margaret returned home late, the dusk thickening outside. She stood on the threshold, gripping her bag, and with unexpected resolve, declared:
—I’m filing for divorce. You can keep the flat—just pay me my share. I don’t need it. I’m leaving.
Victor, her husband, sank into the armchair, stunned.
—Where on earth are you going?— he asked, blinking in confusion.
—That’s no longer your concern,— Rita replied calmly, pulling a suitcase from the wardrobe. —I’ll stay at my friend’s cottage for now. We’ll see after that.
He didn’t understand what was happening. She had already made up her mind.
Three days earlier, the doctor had studied her test results and quietly said:
—In your case, the prognosis isn’t good. Eight months, at most… maybe a year with treatment.
She left the office as though walking through a void. The city buzzed, the sun shone. In her head, the words pulsed: *Eight months… won’t even make it to my anniversary…*
On a park bench, an old man sat beside her. He stayed silent, soaking up the autumn sun, then suddenly spoke:
—I want my last day to be warm. I don’t expect much anymore, but bright sunshine—that’s a gift. Don’t you think?
—I might, if I knew this was my last year,— she murmured.
—Then don’t put anything off anymore. I had so many *laters*, I could’ve filled a lifetime with them. But it never happened.
Rita listened and realised—her whole life had been for others. A job she hated but clung to for security. A husband who’d become a stranger—infidelities, coldness, indifference. A daughter who only called for money and favours. For herself—nothing. No shoes, no holidays, not even a quiet coffee alone.
She had saved everything for *later*. And now—*later* might never come. Something inside her clicked. She went home and, for the first time, said *no*—to everyone, all at once.
The next day, Rita requested leave, withdrew her savings, and left. Her husband demanded explanations, her daughter called begging for something—she answered them all, calm and firm: *No.*
At her friend’s cottage, it was quiet. She sat wrapped in a blanket, thinking—was this how it would end? She hadn’t lived. She had existed. For others. Now—for herself.
A week later, Rita flew to the seaside. There, in a beachfront café, she met George. A writer. Clever, kind. They talked about books, people, the meaning of life. For the first time in years, she laughed truly, without worrying what anyone thought.
—Why don’t we stay here?— he suggested one day. —I can write anywhere. And you’d be my muse. I love you, Margaret.
She nodded. Why not? Time was so short. Let there be happiness—even if fleeting.
Two months passed. She felt wonderful—laughing, walking, brewing coffee at dawn, spinning stories for café regulars. Her daughter fumed, then gave up. Her husband paid her share. Everything went quiet.
Then one morning, the phone rang.
—Margaret Victoria?— The doctor’s voice was shaky. —I’m sorry… there was a mistake. Those weren’t your results. You’re perfectly healthy. Just overworked.
She went silent—then laughed, loud and real.
—Thank you, doctor. You’ve just given me my life back.
She glanced at George, asleep, then walked to the kitchen to make coffee. Because ahead of her wasn’t eight months—it was everything.
