Emily walked into her home late in the evening. The lights of London already twinkled behind the windows. She stood in the doorway, a bag in hand, and said with unexpected firmness:
“I want a divorce. You can keep the flat, but youll pay me back my share. I dont need it. Im leaving.”
Thomas, her husband, slumped into his armchair, stunned.
“Where are you going?” he asked, blinking in confusion.
“Thats no longer your concern,” she replied calmly, pulling a suitcase from the wardrobe. “Ill stay with my friend in the countryside for a while. Well see after that.”
He didnt understand what was happening. But sheshe had already made up her mind.
Three days earlier, the doctor had examined her results and told her gently:
“In your case, the prognosis isnt good. Eight months, at most With treatment, maybe a year.”
She left the clinic in a daze. The city hummed, the sun shone. In her head, one phrase spun on repeat: “Eight months I wont even make it to my birthday”
On a bench in Hyde Park, an old man sat beside her. He was silent for a moment, enjoying the autumn sun, then spoke without warning:
“I want my last day to be sunny. I dont expect much now, but a ray of sunshinethats a gift. Dont you think?”
“Id think so if I knew it was my last year,” she murmured.
“Well, dont put things off anymore. I had so many laters I couldve filled a lifetime with them. But it didnt work out.”
Emily listened and understoodher whole life had been for others. A job she hated but kept for security. A husband whod become a stranger over ten yearsinfidelity, coldness, indifference. A daughter who only called to ask for money or a favour. And for herself? Nothing. No new shoes, no holidays, not even a coffee alone at a café.
Shed saved everything for “later.” Now, that “later” might never come. Something inside her shattered. She went home and, for the first time in her life, said “no”to everything, all at once.
The next day, Emily requested leave, withdrew her savings, and left. Her husband tried to understand; her daughter called demanding answers. She replied to each with calm resolve: “No.”
At her friends countryside cottage, everything was peaceful. Wrapped in a blanket, she thought: Was this really how it would all end? She hadnt lived. Shed survived. For others. Now, it would be for herself.
A week later, Emily flew to the Cornish coast. There, in a seaside café, she met Geoffrey. A writer. Clever, kind. They talked about books, people, the meaning of life. For the first time in years, she laughed freely, without worrying what anyone thought.
“What if we lived here?” he suggested one day. “I can write anywhere. And youyoull be my muse. I love you, Emily.”
She nodded. Why not? She had so little time left. Let there be happinesseven if fleeting.
Two months passed. She felt wonderful. She laughed, strolled along the shore, made coffee in the mornings, spun stories for the neighbours on the terrace. Her daughter protested at first, then let go. Her husband transferred her share. Everything settled.
One morning, her phone rang.
“Emily Foster?” a concerned voice asked. “Im sorrytheres been a mistake those test results werent yours. Youre fine. Its just exhaustion.”
She was silent for a moment, then burst out laughingloud, genuine.
“Thank you, doctor. Youve just given me back my life.”
She glanced at Geoffrey, still asleep, and went to the kitchen to make coffee. Because now she didnt have just eight months ahead of hershe had a whole life.
