**No Longer Living Someone Else’s Life**
Olivia returned home late. Dusk had settled beyond the windows as she stood in the doorway, clutching her handbag. With unexpected resolve, she announced:
—I’m filing for divorce. You can keep the flat—just pay out my share. I don’t need it. I’m leaving.
Her husband, Thomas, sank into his armchair, stunned.
—Where are you planning to go?— he asked, blinking in confusion.
—That’s no longer your concern,— replied Olivia calmly, pulling a suitcase from the wardrobe. —I’ll stay at my friend’s cottage for now. Then we’ll see.
He couldn’t grasp what was happening. For her, the decision was already made.
Three days earlier, the doctor had studied her test results and said quietly,
—The prognosis isn’t favourable in your case. Eight months, at most. With treatment, perhaps a year.
She left the consulting room as if floating through a void. The city buzzed around her; sunlight glinted off pavements. In her mind, the words pulsed: Eight months. Not even enough time to celebrate my birthday.
On a park bench, an elderly man sat beside her. Silent at first, basking in the autumn sun, he suddenly spoke:
—I’d like my last day to be warm. I don’t expect much now, but bright sunshine—now that’s a gift. Don’t you think?
—I might, if I knew this was my last year,— she murmured.
—Then don’t keep putting things off. I had so many ‘laters’ I could’ve filled a lifetime with them. Never did.
Olivia listened and understood—her entire life had been for others. The job she loathed but clung to for security. The husband who’d become a stranger—infidelities, indifference, cold silences spanning years. Her daughter, who rang only for money or favours. For herself? Nothing. No new shoes, no holidays, not even a quiet coffee alone in a café.
She’d been saving 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, Olivia requested leave, emptied her savings, and left. Thomas demanded explanations; her daughter called with requests. Her answer remained calm, firm: No.
At her friend’s cottage, the quiet soothed her. Wrapped in a blanket, she sat in an armchair, wondering—was this how it would end? She hadn’t lived; she’d existed. For others. Now, at last, it was for herself.
A week later, Olivia flew to the coast. In a beachside café, she met Daniel—a writer, kind and thoughtful. They spoke of books, life, meaning. For the first time in years, she laughed freely, unburdened by judgement.
—Why not stay here?— he suggested one evening. —I can write anywhere. You’d be my muse. I love you, Olivia.
She nodded. Why not? So little time remained. Let her grasp happiness—however fleeting.
Two months passed. She felt radiant—laughing, strolling, brewing morning coffee, weaving tales for café regulars. Her daughter’s protests faded; Thomas transferred her share. Life settled into peace.
Then, one morning, her phone rang.
—Olivia Whitmore?— The doctor’s voice was urgent. —Apologies—there was a mistake. Those weren’t your test results. You’re perfectly healthy. Just exhaustion.
Silence. Then she laughed—rich, unguarded.
—Thank you, Doctor. You’ve just given me back my life.
She glanced at Daniel, still asleep, and went to brew coffee. Because ahead of her lay not eight months—but a lifetime.
