Margaret returned home late. Dusk had already settled beyond the windows. She stood on the threshold, clutching her bag, and with unexpected resolve, declared:
—I’m filing for divorce. Keep the flat—just pay me my share. I don’t need it. I’m leaving.
Victor, her husband, sank into his chair, stunned.
—Where on earth 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. She had already made up her mind.
Three days earlier, the doctor had glanced at her test results and said quietly:
—In your case, the prognosis isn’t good. Eight months at most… Perhaps a year with treatment.
She left the clinic as if walking through a void. The city bustled around her, the sun shone. Over and over, the words echoed in her mind: *Eight months… won’t even make it to my milestone birthday…*
On a park bench, an old man settled beside her. He sat in silence, basking in the autumn sun, then spoke unexpectedly:
—I hope my last day is warm. I don’t ask for much anymore, 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 for later. I had so many ‘laters’ I could’ve filled a lifetime with them. But I never did.
Rita listened and realised—her entire life had been for others. A job she disliked but clung to for security. A husband who’d become a stranger a decade ago—infidelity, coldness, indifference. A daughter who called only for money or favours. And for herself? Nothing. No shoes bought just because, no holidays, not even a quiet coffee alone.
She had saved everything for *later*. And now—*later* might never come. Something inside her clicked. She returned home and, for the first time, said *no*—to everyone, all at once.
The next day, Rita requested leave, withdrew her savings, and left. Her husband demanded explanations; her daughter rang with requests. To each, she replied with quiet firmness: *No.*
At her friend’s cottage, it was peaceful. Wrapped in a throw, she sat in an armchair and wondered—*Is this how it ends?* She hadn’t lived. She’d existed. For others. Now—for herself.
A week later, Rita flew to the coast. In a seaside café, she met George—a writer, clever and kind. They spoke of books, people, the meaning of life. For the first time in years, she laughed without worrying what anyone thought.
—Why don’t we stay here?— he suggested 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. Let there be happiness—even if fleeting.
Two months passed. She felt wonderful—laughing, strolling, brewing coffee at dawn, spinning tales for café regulars. Her daughter protested, then relented. Her husband transferred her share. Everything fell quiet.
Then, one morning, the phone rang.
—Margaret?— The doctor’s voice was strained. —I’m so sorry… there was a mistake. Those weren’t your results. You’re perfectly healthy. Just exhaustion.
She stayed silent—then laughed, loud and real.
—Thank you, Doctor. You’ve just given me my life back.
She glanced at George, asleep, and headed to the kitchen to make coffee. Because now, she didn’t have eight months ahead of her—she had a lifetime.
