On my birthday, I had a brain tumor attack. My vision blurred, my thoughts scattered. While the doctors worked to stabilize me, they picked up my phone to call my family. My wife answered, her tone sharp and impatient: “Why are you so annoying? Are you seriously checking up on me again? I’m about to board a flight to Florence with Tim—don’t call me unless it’s an emergency!” Then my daughter’s voice chimed in, casual and carefree: “Honestly, if he dies, that’d be great. The insurance payout can go straight to my account. My boyfriend’s been eyeing a new motorcycle.” Hearing that, I didn’t feel angry. Strangely, I felt… relieved. Maybe it was finally time to leave this miserable life behind. When I opened my eyes again, the doctor handed me my phone, his expression grim. “Mr. Carter, the tumor is pressing against your nerves. You need surgery immediately. You should discuss this with your family.” Still groggy, I held the phone loosely in my hand. The emergency room was silent except for the faint hum of machines. I could feel the pity radiating from the other patients and their families. Some even turned away, discreetly wiping their tears. I glanced at my phone screen—my wife, Monica, and my daughter, Julia, had already blocked me. With no other choice, I sent a message to someone I thought I’d never contact: Monica’s first love, Tim. “Please let Monica know she needs to come back. It’s urgent.” To avoid any misunderstandings, I added: “I want to talk to her about filing for divorce. It’s important.” After spending a few hours recovering at the hospital, I picked up my prescription and headed home. When I walked through the door, Monica was already seated on the couch. She was dressed for vacation: oversized sunglasses perched on her nose, a wide-brimmed straw hat on her head, and a breezy bohemian maxi dress that swayed with every movement. The moment she saw me, she let out a sharp laugh and slammed her sunglasses onto the coffee table. “Seriously? What’s your deal now? Tim and I were at the airport, about to board, and you dragged me back here for this nonsense. God, no wonder Julia finds you insufferable!” At 45, Monica had fine lines around her eyes, but with her impeccable skincare routine, her skin was still taut, her makeup flawless. Her bold red lipstick and voluminous waves made her look far younger than her age. Behind her, Tim stood dutifully, massaging her shoulders. He leaned down, murmuring in her ear with an intimacy that made my stomach twist. “Monica, calm down,” he said softly. “Let’s hear what Carter has to say. Maybe it’s actually important.” Tim, of course, still carried himself like the gentleman he once was. Despite the stiffness in his Botoxed face, his tailored designer suit gave him an air of sophistication. I stared at them and felt… nothing. My mind drifted back to the day Monica forgot Julia’s third birthday cake. She’d been too distracted by Tim’s unexpected return to the country. Later, when I picked up a drunken Monica from a bar, I overheard her telling her friends how I was just a stand-in for Tim. Now, my graying hair and tired face bore no resemblance to the man she once loved. Snapping back to the present, I pulled out the divorce papers and placed them on the table. “Monica,” I said evenly, “let’s get a divorce.” Her eyes flew open in disbelief, her body going rigid as if she hadn’t heard me correctly. “What?” she spat, her voice rising. “First, you fake being sick to get me back from the airport, and now you’re throwing a tantrum about divorce? Carter, you’re almost fifty years old. When are you going to grow up?” Her words stung, but I stayed calm. Yes, I was turning 49 today. If she’d gone into the kitchen, she would’ve seen the half-prepped ingredients I’d been cutting before the tumor attack—ingredients for dishes she and Julia loved. But when I collapsed, there wasn’t a single family member around to notice. There was no point sharing these thoughts, though. Monica would just call me dramatic and clingy. People say the dying speak only the truth. I had no intention of arguing. Instead, I smiled faintly. “It’s nothing,” I said quietly. “I just had an epiphany. There’s no point holding you back from Tim anymore.” Her eyes narrowed, but I continued. “Last month, when you and Tim went to Alaska to see the northern lights, you probably didn’t hear that my mom passed away.” Her lips parted slightly, but I didn’t let her interrupt. “My dad died saving you from drowning all those years ago, and my mom pressured you into marrying me to repay that debt. I know that was unfair to you. You’ve always wanted to be with Tim.” I gestured vaguely at the room around us. “For the past twenty years, I’ve worked tirelessly at your company to help it go public. That was my way of paying you back for everything my mom put you through.” I took a deep breath, my tone softening. “She’s gone now. You don’t have to worry about her showing up at the office to yell at you or make a scene. You’re free, Monica.” “For what it’s worth, I wish you and Tim the best. You’ve waited long enough—give him the life he deserves.” The weight I’d carried for years lifted as I spoke those words. Monica, however, clenched the divorce papers in her hands, her knuckles whitening. Her voice trembled as she said, “I’ve put up with you for over twenty years. What about Julia? Have you even thought about how she’ll feel about this?” Julia’s voice echoed in my head: “If he dies, that’d be great.” I smiled faintly. “She’ll be fine,” I replied, nodding toward Tim. “She likes him more than me anyway. Let him take care of her.” Years ago, when Julia was little, Monica had already started relying on Tim to help with parenting duties. She’d spent years building up his image in Julia’s eyes, ensuring he’d be her favorite. Now, I was just giving them what they wanted. But instead of looking pleased, Monica’s face darkened. She bit her lip so hard it looked like she might draw blood. Her chest rose and fell as she tried to compose herself, her gaze locked on me, searching for the anger or jealousy I’d always shown in the past. But this time, all she saw was indifference. Her voice dropped, cold and sharp: “Fine. You want a divorce? Then you’re leaving with nothing. No house, no money. Nothing.” She stared at me, confident I’d back down. After all, she’d spent years mocking me, calling me a gold-digger who married her for her family’s wealth. She’d always believed I’d never leave because I couldn’t survive without her money. But I simply nodded. “That’s fine,” I said. “I don’t need the house, the money, or even Julia.”
Monica hadn’t said a word yet, but Tim, standing silently beside her, broke into a wide grin, his voice dripping with satisfaction. “Carter, I didn’t expect you to be this enlightened. Honestly, I should thank you for taking care of Monica all these years. Don’t worry—moving forward, I’ll take great care of her and your daughter.” Monica acted as if she hadn’t heard him. Her hand gripped the pen so tightly her knuckles turned white. Then, out of nowhere, she snapped. “Twenty years, Carter. Twenty years, and you pull this stunt now? What’s the point of all this? Can’t you just let things end peacefully?” She leaned forward, her voice sharp and cutting. “And what do you think happens after the divorce? Do you seriously believe I’ll let you stay at the company? A fifty-year-old man with no connections—what company would even take you? At least as my husband, you could live comfortably off our family’s wealth. But now? What’s your plan, huh?” Her words, meant to sting, didn’t faze me in the slightest. I gave a small, self-deprecating smile. She was right—our daughter was old enough to be married. What was the point of me kicking up a fuss now? Years ago, I used every resource I had—every favor, every ounce of credit—to bargain with the system for the chance to live a lifetime in this world. The system had warned me, its tone clinical: “You only get one shot at this. I have other hosts to assist. Once I leave, there’s no turning back. If you regret it later, you’ll have no one to blame but yourself.” At the time, I wasn’t thinking about the consequences. My arms were wrapped around Monica, who was holding our newborn daughter. I was drunk on happiness, so much so that I’d promised with absolute certainty, “I’ll never regret it.” But that was before Tim returned. Before he destroyed the fragile illusion of our perfect life. What I thought was happiness turned out to be nothing but a mirage. Years ago, I’d considered leaving Monica. I even brought it up once, but our daughter had clung to my leg, sobbing, begging us not to divorce. My mother scolded me then, too: “You don’t know how lucky you are. As long as your name is on the marriage certificate, Tim can cause all the drama he wants, but it won’t affect your inheritance.” I stayed, telling myself I was doing it for Julia. For my mother. But I wasn’t happy. I felt smothered. This time, though, the brain tumor changed everything. Monica and Julia’s indifference, their coldness—it set me free. Snapping out of my thoughts, I looked at Monica and replied, my voice calm: “Monica, my life after this has nothing to do with you. Unless… are you actually concerned about me now?” I knew she hated it when I acted like this—calm, detached, and impossible to provoke. Sure enough, her face twisted as if she’d swallowed something bitter. She stared at me, disgusted, then snatched up the pen and scribbled her name onto the divorce papers. “Fine,” she spat. “But don’t come crawling back later, crying and begging for another chance. You’re not stepping foot in the company again.” With that, she grabbed Tim by the arm and stormed out, her heels clicking sharply against the hardwood floor. The house fell silent once again. I sat on the couch, staring at the home I’d lived in for over twenty years. Every piece of furniture, every decoration, was etched into my memory. Yet, I felt like a stranger here—as if I’d always been just a guest. After a while, hunger pulled me out of my daze. I went to the kitchen and tossed out the half-prepped ingredients: beef, lamb, salmon—all the things Monica and Julia loved. Then, I boiled a simple pot of noodles for myself. The noodles were plain, seasoned with nothing but a pinch of salt and oil. As I ate, I thought back to the early days of my marriage. Monica had been a spoiled heiress, completely unfamiliar with housework. Yet, for my birthday, she’d insisted on making me a bowl of noodles, tying an apron over her designer dress and covering herself in flour. She’d burned her hand in the process, but she’d brushed off the injury, laughing as she urged me to eat. “Eat up,” she’d said. “Longevity noodles for a long, happy life.” The noodles had been terrible—thick and undercooked, the broth far too salty—but I ate every bite, convinced that Monica was my forever. Now, her youthful face was just a blur in my memory. A sharp pain shot through my head, pulling me back to the present. I grabbed the painkillers the doctor had prescribed and swallowed them dry. When the pain subsided, I washed the dishes, dried my hands, and pulled out a suitcase to start packing. It didn’t take long—most of the belongings in the house were Monica’s or Julia’s. Once I finished, I went to the closet and retrieved an old chest I’d hidden away for years. Inside were all the things I’d once cherished: Ticket stubs from dates with Monica. Our wedding photos. A tie clip she’d given me as a gift. Julia’s childhood drawings, her handwritten notes from school—all carefully preserved in plastic sleeves. I carried the chest to the backyard, setting it on the firepit Monica and Tim used for their fancy dinner parties. Then, without hesitation, I lit a match and watched the flames consume everything. The firelight flickered across my face, but I felt nothing. Suddenly, rain began to fall, snuffing out the fire in an instant. I glanced down at the charred remains of the chest. Most of it had turned to ash. I didn’t bother inspecting it further. Afterward, I deactivated all my social media accounts and deleted my contacts. I’d always been a drifter, a man with no roots. Now, I was erasing myself entirely from Monica and Julia’s world. Once my suitcase was packed, I drove to the office to hand off my responsibilities and clear out my desk. As I packed up my things, my coworkers stopped by, their faces full of admiration. “Carter, I can’t believe you’re retiring already! Monica must really adore you to let you step down so early. We’re all jealous!” “Yeah, if I had a wife and kid like yours, I’d retire early too. Enjoy life, man.” I forced a smile, saying nothing. None of them knew the truth. Over the years, Monica had built the image of a perfect marriage for the sake of the company. Publicly, we were the model couple—attending charity galas, buying luxury cars, and flaunting our wealth. But every gift she “bought” for me ended up in Tim’s hands. And I had to play along, pretending to be modest and frugal while she showered him with everything I’d supposedly been given. As I carried my files out of the office, I overheard the HR manager giving instructions to a team. “Get the new VP’s office ready,” he said, glancing at me briefly. “Make sure it’s perfect. Monica’s bringing in someone new.” Curious, one of the employees asked, “Who’s the new VP?” The HR manager smirked slightly, then revealed a nameplate: “Vice President: Tim Evans.”
Everyone around me stared in shock, but I simply smirked, a self-deprecating curve tugging at my lips. For years, I’d been stuck using the oldest, most outdated equipment in the company. Every time the company upgraded its tech, I’d submit a request for a new computer. And every time, Monica would reject it with a frown. “Why are you so vain?” she’d say. “Your old computer still works, doesn’t it? Stop being wasteful.” But when it came to Tim, she never settled for less. Anything he wanted, she gave him in full—except for her last name. Once upon a time, the blatant disparity in how she treated us would’ve made my blood boil. It might’ve even broken my heart. But not anymore. Now, all I could feel was a strange sense of detachment, perhaps even amusement. Monica couldn’t wait to help Tim rise to the top. This was what true love looked like, wasn’t it? Shaking off the thought, I nodded at the HR manager, turned on my heel, and walked away from the company I had devoted my life to. After leaving the office, I drove to a funeral supply store. I figured if I was going to die, I might as well do it with a little dignity. The clerk showed me the options, but my funds were limited. Most of my money had already gone to prepay the mortician for handling my body when the time came. So I settled for the cheapest burial suit they had. Clutching the suit in my arms, I stepped out of the store, only to hear the roar of a motorcycle speeding past. The exhaust fumes choked me, making me cough. A few seconds later, the bike circled back and skidded to a stop in front of me. From the backseat, a girl hopped off—a teenager with smoky makeup, a crop top, and an attitude to match. It was Julia. She sauntered over, her tone dripping with sarcasm. “Well, well, look who’s still alive. Hurry up and transfer me ten grand. My boyfriend wants a new bike.” Her words were like a slap to the face, but I forced myself to stay calm. “I don’t have any money,” I said flatly. Julia rolled her eyes, her heavily made-up face twisting in disbelief. “Yeah, right. You’re broke? Please. Mom would never leave you without money.” Her voice was filled with scorn. And why wouldn’t she think that? To outsiders, I was the epitome of a kept man—a trophy husband in a wealthy family. But the truth was far less glamorous. Monica never trusted me with money. My salary went directly into her account, and every expense—no matter how small—had to be approved by her. Even when I needed a pack of cigarettes, she’d insist I buy the cheapest brand. To make ends meet, I took on side gigs to scrape together a little extra cash. When I was diagnosed with the tumor, I brought the medical bills to Monica and asked for help. Her reaction? She accused me of scamming her, called me a liar, and demanded to know why I thought she’d hand over ten grand as if her money grew on trees. Then, as if that wasn’t enough, she locked me in the house to “reflect on my behavior” and took Tim on a private flight to Alaska to see the northern lights. While I was locked up, my mother passed away. I never got to see her one last time. When I heard the news, my relatives told me she’d died with tears streaming down her face, cursing me for being a selfish son who had married an even more selfish wife. The memory still stung, but I forced it down and focused on the girl in front of me. Julia smirked, clearly enjoying the situation. “Fine,” she said, flipping her hair. “If you’re not giving me money, I’ll just ask Uncle Tim. He’s way better than you—rich, handsome, and actually fun to be around.” Her words didn’t hurt me. Not anymore. I stared at her for a moment, wondering how the sweet girl I’d raised had turned into… this. When Tim first came back into our lives, Monica had all but abandoned us. I became both mom and dad, pouring everything I had into raising Julia. She used to be on my side, throwing icy glares and sharp words at Monica and Tim. But everything changed when she turned 17. She fell for a dropout with bleached hair—a boy who dragged her into his chaotic world. She dropped out of school, started skipping curfews, and regularly demanded money from me. I tried to stop her, to pull her back onto the right path. But one day, when I confronted her boyfriend, he showed up with a group of his friends and beat me within an inch of my life. And Julia? She stood on the sidelines, cheering them on. “Toughen up, old man!” she’d yelled. “Learn your lesson!” After that, something in me broke. I stopped trying to save her. Later, when I was recovering from my injuries, she showed up, all smiles and apologies. She promised to make it up to me, even offering to spend my birthday with me. I waited all day for her. Instead, I saw a video Tim posted on social media. In it, Julia was at a lavish dinner, hugging Tim’s arm and giggling as she said, “Happy vacation, Dad! Hope you and Mom have an amazing time in Florence!” Then she accepted a fat red envelope from him with a bright, grateful smile. I’d been in the kitchen preparing dinner when I saw the post. The next thing I knew, I was on the floor, my head pounding, the tumor finally catching up with me. Now, standing in front of her again, I felt… nothing. I let out a small sigh and said, “Go ahead. Ask Tim for the money.” Then, after a pause, I added: “Oh, and by the way, your mom and I are divorced now. You can stop calling him Uncle Tim. Just call him Dad—it suits him better.”
Julia froze, staring at me with wide eyes. Her fingers twisted the hem of her shirt as her face flushed with embarrassment. “How did you know…?” she stammered, before quickly shifting to defiance. “It’s your fault anyway! You’re so stingy! Every time I ask for money, you drag your feet, so I had no choice but to ask him! At least he understands me—he knows what real love is!” Her defiance turned to scorn as she crossed her arms, giving me a once-over. “You’re lying about the divorce, right? You think I’d actually believe you? Stop pretending.” Her eyes fell on the package in my hands, her expression shifting to curiosity. “What’s that ugly thing you’re holding? Is it… clothes?” Before I could answer, her boyfriend—a bleached-haired punk with a cigarette dangling from his lips—rested a hand on her shoulder and squinted at the package. “Wait a second… isn’t that a burial suit? Someone in your family kick the bucket?” The words hung in the air as Julia stepped forward, reaching for the package. “Well, let me see for myself! What kind of stunt are you pulling now?” I frowned and instinctively pushed her back. Caught off guard, she stumbled and fell to the ground with a thud. From her pocket, a small card slipped out. I bent down and picked it up. It was an ID card. The photo was hers, but the name read: Julia Evans. For a moment, I felt like the world had gone silent. Then the pain started—a sharp, unbearable ache in my head. When Julia was born, Monica had a severe hemorrhage. I was terrified I’d lose them both, so I insisted Julia take Monica’s last name as a way to honor her survival. Years later, when my relationship with Monica soured, Julia had come to me more than once, begging to adopt my last name instead. She’d said she wanted nothing to do with her selfish mother. But now… At some point, she had willingly chosen to take Tim’s last name instead. I clutched my head as my vision blurred. The doctor had warned me this would happen—that the tumor would eventually press on my nerves, causing vision problems, memory loss, even cognitive decline. How pathetic I was now, I thought bitterly. I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to push back the darkness. When I opened them again, I could see Julia snatching the ID card from my hand and shoving it into her pocket, her movements frantic. “Don’t get mad!” she said, her voice rushing out in a jumbled explanation. “I just thought Uncle Tim was really pitiful, you know? He’s getting older and has no kids of his own. It’s just a name change—it doesn’t mean anything! I’m still your daughter. Isn’t it nice to have two dads who love me?” She glanced at my face, her confidence wavering as she noticed my expression. “What’s wrong with you now?” she asked, frowning. “Don’t tell me you’re pretending to go blind again. No wonder Mom doesn’t like you—you act like a child, always faking illnesses to get attention.” I didn’t reply. I simply shook my head, brushing past her as I walked away. She hesitated, as if she wanted to say something more, but she didn’t follow me. By the time I left, the pounding in my head had subsided somewhat. I took the bus to my childhood home—it wasn’t far, just on the outskirts of town. The building was old, its walls stained with years of neglect. Dust coated every surface, and the air smelled faintly of mildew. This was where I’d grown up, before Monica had taken us in after my father drowned saving her life. I hadn’t been back in years. Now, the place felt like a tomb. I cleaned off the bed, shut the windows tightly, and locked the door. Then, I opened the gas canister I’d brought with me, letting the sharp scent of natural gas fill the room. Calmly, I changed into the burial suit I’d bought earlier and lay down on the bed, positioning myself so the mortician could find me easily. As I settled in, my phone buzzed. I considered ignoring it, but out of habit, I answered. Monica’s impatient voice came through the line. “Carter, where are you? There’s a dinner party tonight, and you need to be there. I’m giving you thirty minutes to get ready.” Her tone was sharp, like I was nothing more than an inconvenience. I replied evenly, “I won’t make it. I’m about to die.” There was a loud crash on the other end, followed by the sound of glass shattering. Then Monica’s voice, shrill and angry: “Carter, what the hell is wrong with you? Stop saying such unlucky things!” Before I could respond, I heard Tim’s voice in the background, calm and calculated as always. “Monica, maybe Carter just can’t handle the divorce. If he’s really that upset, why don’t you take him back? I don’t mind—I’ll always be here to support you.” Classic Tim. Playing the martyr, always angling for sympathy. And Monica, blind as ever, never saw through his act. Just as I expected, her anger flared. “Carter, don’t you dare use this to guilt me! Do you think I’m asking you to come because I want to? The CEO specifically requested you, or I wouldn’t have bothered. Fine, don’t come. And while you’re at it, don’t bother coming home either. Don’t expect to see Julia again, either!” She hung up, leaving me in silence once more. I exhaled slowly, my grip on the phone loosening until it fell to the floor. The gas filled the room, thick and suffocating. My limbs grew heavy, my vision darkening. The doctor had said that the end would feel like drifting off to sleep. But this wasn’t peaceful. I could feel every second of my body shutting down, every painful gasp for air. My face felt swollen, my skin tight. It’s fine, I told myself. It’ll all be over soon. Death, I thought, was like a quiet summer night—eerily serene. I could hear the faint hiss of the gas, a sound that seemed almost soothing. Thank God I’d hired someone to handle my body. Otherwise, I might have rotted here for weeks without anyone noticing. But just as I was surrendering to the darkness, the door burst open with a deafening crash. Someone had kicked it in. An uninvited guest had arrived.
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