Emily no longer wished to live someone elses life.
Emily returned home late in the evening. The lights of London shimmered through the windows. She stood on the doorstep, 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.”
James, 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 she had already made up her mind.
Three days earlier, the doctor had examined her results and said softly:
“In your case, the prognosis isnt good. Eight months, at most With treatment, perhaps a year.”
She had left the clinic as if in a fog. The city hummed, the sun shone. In her head, a single phrase looped: “Eight months I wont even make it to my birthday”
On a bench in Hyde Park, an old man sat beside her. He lingered in silence, soaking up 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?”
“I might think so if I knew it were my last year,” she murmured.
“Well, dont put things off. I had so many laters I couldve filled another life. But it didnt work out.”
Emily listened and understoodher whole life had been for others. A job she loathed but kept for security. A husband whod become a stranger over ten yearsunfaithful, cold, indifferent. 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 on a terrace.
She had 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, Emily requested leave, withdrew her savings, and left. Her husband tried to understand; her daughter called demanding answers. She replied to each with calm finality: “No.”
In her friends countryside cottage, peace settled around her. Wrapped in a blanket, she wondered: was this really how it would end? She hadnt lived. She had survived. For others. Now, it would be for herself.
A week later, Emily flew to Cornwall. There, in a seaside café, she met Henry. A writer. Clever, kind. They spoke of books, of people, of lifes meaning. For the first time in years, she laughed without restraint, without worrying who might be watching.
“What if we stayed 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 wonderfully alive. She laughed, walked along the shore, made coffee in the mornings, spun tales for the neighbours on the terrace. Her daughter protested at first, then gave up. Her husband transferred her share. Everything settled.
One morning, her phone rang.
“Emily Whitaker?” A worried voice. “Forgive me, theres been a mistake those results werent yours. Youre perfectly well. 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 brew coffee. Because now, she didnt have eight months leftbut a whole life.
