Margaret returned home late, the evening shadows already thickening outside. She stood on the threshold, clutching her bag, and with an unexpected firmness declared:
“I’m filing for divorce. You can keep the flat—just pay me my share. I don’t need it. I’m leaving.”
Victor, her husband, sank into his armchair in shock.
“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 with my friend at her cottage for now. Then we’ll see.”
He didn’t understand what was happening. But she had already made up her mind.
Three days earlier, the doctor had studied her test results and quietly said:
“Your prognosis is poor. Eight months at most… with treatment, perhaps a year.”
She stepped out of the office as if walking through emptiness. The city hummed, the sun shone. One thought pounded in her head: “Eight months… I won’t even make it to my fiftieth…”
On a bench in the park, an old man sat beside her. Silent at first, basking in the autumn light, he suddenly spoke:
“I’d like my last day to be warm. I don’t expect much now, but bright sunshine—that’s a gift, wouldn’t you say?”
“I’d think so, if I knew it were 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. But I didn’t.”
Rita listened and understood—her whole life had been for others. A job she disliked but clung to for security. A husband who’d become a stranger—infidelity, coldness, indifference. A daughter who only called for money or favours. And for herself? Nothing. No new shoes, no holidays, not even a quiet coffee alone.
She had saved everything for “later.” And now, that “later” might never come. Something inside her clicked. She went home and, for the first time, said “no”—to everyone, all at once.
The next day, Rita applied for leave, withdrew her savings, and left. Her husband demanded answers; her daughter called with requests—she answered them all with the same calm resolve: “No.”
Her friend’s cottage was quiet. Wrapped in a blanket, she sat and wondered—was this really how it would end? She hadn’t lived. She had existed. For others. Now, at last, for herself.
A week later, Rita flew to the coast. There, 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 who might judge her.
“Why don’t we stay here?” he suggested one evening. “I can write anywhere. And you could be my muse. I love you, Margaret.”
She nodded. Why not? Time was so short. Let there be happiness—however fleeting.
Two months passed. She felt exhilarated—laughing, strolling along the shore, brewing coffee in the mornings, inventing stories for the café regulars. Her daughter protested before finally relenting. Her husband paid her share. Everything settled into quiet.
Then one morning, the phone rang.
“Margaret Whitmore?” The doctor’s voice was uneasy. “We—we made a mistake. Those weren’t your test results. You’re perfectly healthy. Just exhaustion.”
She was silent—then burst into laughter, loud and unrestrained.
“Thank you, Doctor. You’ve just given me my life back.”
She looked at George, still sleeping, and walked to the kitchen to make coffee. Because ahead of her lay not eight months—but a whole lifetime.
