Margaret returned home late, the twilight thick outside the windows. She stood in the doorway, clutching her handbag, and with unexpected firmness 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 the hell 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. Then we’ll see.”
He didn’t understand what was happening. But she had already made up her mind.
Three days earlier, the doctor had studied her test results and said quietly,
“The prognosis isn’t good. Eight months at most… With treatment, maybe a year.”
She walked out of the office as if floating in silence. The city buzzed around her, the sun shining. In her head, the words pulsed: “Eight months… not even enough time to celebrate my fiftieth…”
An old man settled on a park bench beside her. He sat quietly, basking in the autumn sun, then spoke unexpectedly:
“I hope my last day is warm. I don’t ask for much now—just bright sunshine. Don’t you think?”
“I’d think so, if I knew this was my last year,” she murmured.
“Then don’t put anything off. I had so many ‘laters’ I could’ve filled a lifetime with them. But I never did.”
Rita listened—and realised—her whole life had been about others. A job she loathed but clung to for security. A husband who hadn’t been hers in a decade—infidelity, coldness, indifference. A daughter who only called when she needed money. And for herself? Nothing. No new shoes, no holidays, not even a quiet coffee alone.
She had been saving everything for “later.” And now—”later” might never come. Something inside her *clicked*. She returned home and, for the first time, said “no”—to everything, all at once.
The next day, Rita took unpaid leave, withdrew her savings, and left. Her husband demanded explanations; her daughter called with demands. She answered them all—calmly, firmly—”No.”
At her friend’s cottage, the quiet was a refuge. Wrapped in a blanket, she sat and wondered: *Is this really how it ends?* She hadn’t lived. She had existed. For others. Now—it was for herself.
A week later, Rita flew to the seaside. There, in a café by the shore, she met George. A writer. Clever, kind. They talked about books, people, the meaning of life. For the first time in years, she laughed without caring who might judge.
“What if we just stayed here?” he asked one evening. “I can write anywhere. And you’d be my muse. I love you, Margaret.”
She nodded. *Why not?* She had so little time left. Even fleeting joy was worth it.
Two months passed. She felt radiant—laughing, strolling, brewing coffee at dawn, spinning tales for café regulars. Her daughter raged before giving up. Her husband paid her share. The storm had passed.
Then, one morning, her phone rang.
“Margaret Whitmore?” The doctor’s voice was unsteady. “I—we made a mistake… Those weren’t your test results. You’re fine. Just exhaustion.”
She went silent—then laughed, loud and unguarded.
“Thank you, doctor. You’ve just given me my life back.”
She glanced at George, asleep, then moved to the kitchen to make coffee. Because ahead of her wasn’t eight months—it was *everything*.
