Emma stood at her doorstep late in the evening, the twilight settling over London. Holding her bag tightly, she spoke with unexpected resolve:
“I’m filing for divorce. You can keep the flat—just pay me my share. I don’t need it. I’m leaving.”
Thomas, her husband, sank into his armchair, stunned. “Where on earth are you going?” he asked, blinking in confusion.
“That’s no longer your concern,” Emma 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, “I’m afraid the prognosis isn’t good. Eight months at most. With treatment, maybe a year.”
She left the clinic as if floating through emptiness. London bustled around her, the sun shining. In her mind, the words pulsed: *Eight months… I won’t even make it to my birthday…*
On a park bench, an elderly man sat beside her. He basked in the autumn sun before speaking unexpectedly: “I hope my last day is this warm. I don’t ask for much now, but bright sunshine—that’s a gift. Don’t you think?”
“I might, if I knew it 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.”
Emma listened and realized—her entire life had been for others. A job she hated but kept for stability. A husband who’d grown distant years ago—infidelity, coldness, indifference. A daughter who only called for money or favours. And for herself? Nothing. No new shoes, no holidays, not even a quiet coffee alone.
She had saved everything for “later.” Now, that “later” might never come. Something inside her clicked. That evening, she finally said “no”—to everyone, all at once.
The next day, Emma requested leave, withdrew her savings, and left. Thomas demanded explanations; her daughter called with demands. She answered them all with calm certainty: “No.”
At her friend’s cottage, the silence was soothing. Wrapped in a blanket, she wondered: *Is this really how it ends?* She hadn’t lived; she had merely existed—for others. Now, at last, she would live for herself.
A week later, Emma flew to the seaside. In a café by the shore, she met Daniel, a writer—kind, thoughtful. They talked of books, people, the meaning of life. For the first time in years, she laughed freely, unburdened by others’ opinions.
“Let’s stay here,” he suggested one evening. “I can write anywhere. And you—you’ll be my muse. I love you, Emma.”
She nodded. Why not? Time was short. Let there be happiness—however fleeting.
Two months passed. She felt wonderful—laughing, walking, brewing coffee each morning, weaving stories for café regulars. Her daughter complained at first, then gave up. Thomas transferred her share of the flat. Everything fell into quietude.
Then, one morning, her phone rang.
“Emma?” The doctor’s voice was strained. “I’m so sorry—there was a mistake. Those weren’t your test results. You’re perfectly healthy. Just exhaustion.”
She was silent, then laughed—loud, genuine.
“Thank you, Doctor. You’ve just given me my life back.”
She glanced at Daniel, asleep, and walked to the kitchen to make coffee. Because now, she had not eight months ahead of her—but a lifetime.
Sometimes, it takes believing time is short to realise how much of it we’ve wasted.
