**Diary Entry**
Sophia returned home late in the evening. The lights of London twinkled beyond the windows. She stood in the doorway, a bag in hand, and declared with unexpected resolve:
“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 a friend at her cottage 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 said gently,
“In your case, the prognosis isnt good. Eight months, at most With treatment, maybe a year.”
Shed left the clinic in a daze. The city hummed around her, the sun shining brightly. One phrase looped in her mind: *Eight months I wont even make it to my birthday*
On a bench in Hyde Park, an elderly man sat beside her. He stayed quiet for a moment, soaking in the autumn sun, then spoke without warning:
“I want my last day to be sunny. I dont expect much now, but a bit of sunlightthats a gift, isnt it?”
“Id think so if I knew it were my last year,” she murmured.
“Well, dont put things off anymore. I had so many ‘laters’ I couldve filled another life with them. But it didnt work out.”
Sophia listenedand understood. Her whole life had been for others. A job she hated but kept for security. A husband whod become a stranger over the past decadecheating, coldness, indifference. A daughter who only called to ask for money or favours. And for herself? Nothing. No new shoes, no holidays, not even a quiet coffee alone.
Shed saved everything for “later.” Now, that “later” might never come. Something inside her shattered. She went home and, for the first time, said “no”to everything, all at once.
The next day, Sophia requested leave, withdrew her savings, and left. Thomas tried to understand; her daughter called demanding answers. She responded to each with calm determination: “No.”
At her friends cottage in the countryside, everything was peaceful. Wrapped in a blanket, she wondered: *Is this really how it ends?* She hadnt livedshed survived. For others. Now, it would be for herself.
A week later, Sophia flew to Cornwall. There, in a seaside café, she met Henry. A writer. Sharp, gentle. They talked about books, people, the meaning of life. For the first time in years, she laughed without worrying what anyone thought.
“What if we stayed here?” he suggested one day. “I can write anywhere. And youyoud be my muse. I love you, Sophia.”
She nodded. Why not? She had so little time left. Let there be happinesseven if fleeting.
Two months passed. She felt wonderful. Laughing, walking, making coffee in the mornings, spinning stories for the neighbours on the terrace. Her daughter protested at first, then gave up. Thomas transferred her share of the flat. Everything settled.
Then one morning, her phone rang.
“Sophia Whitmore?” A tense voice. “Im sorrythere was a mistake. Those test results werent yours. Youre fine. Just exhaustion.”
She was silent for a moment, then burst out laughingloud, genuine.
“Thank you, doctor. Youve just given me my life back.”
She glanced at Henry, still asleep, and went to the kitchen to make coffee. Because now, she didnt have eight months leftshe had a whole lifetime.
