Living for Herself
“Only 49 and…,” Margaret looked bewildered at the doctor. “Isn’t there anything to be done?” she asked hopefully.
“With appropriate treatment and certain procedures, we might be able to extend the time by a year or perhaps a bit more,” Dr. Joshua Evans tapped a pencil on his desk, having just made notes on Margaret’s file. Over his long career, he’d grown accustomed to shock, tears, outbursts, and even accusations. Everyone reacted differently to a diagnosis of impending death.
“I’ll think about it,” was all she said before leaving.
Until recently, Margaret had been healthy, seldom even catching a cold. A couple of months back, noticing something amiss, she’d visited the hospital. The tumor, in the doctors’ opinion, was inoperable. Six to eight months, Dr. Evans had predicted. Margaret didn’t break down or blame anyone for not catching it earlier. Six months seemed so little. She wouldn’t even make it to her next birthday.
“What a beautiful day,” a voice interrupted her sad thoughts. Having stepped out of the hospital, she sat on a bench, lost in thought, not noticing an elderly man who had joined her. He sat with a cane, squinting at the sun.
“Sorry to startle you,” the elder said, noticing her jump.
“No worries,” Margaret tried to smile. “The weather is indeed lovely.”
“At my age, I even enjoy rainy days, but I’m especially grateful for sunny ones. Call it a whim, but I’d like my last day on earth to be bright and warm.”
“You speak of death so calmly,” Margaret said, surprised.
“I’m 94,” the old man laughed. “Besides, no one’s safe from death. Who knows at what age it would come for you? One should always be prepared. It’s a shame it took me so long to realize this. I’ve delayed doing so much. If only I’d known, I might have done things sooner.”
“What would you do if you knew you’d die tomorrow? Forgive me, an old man’s ramblings. There’s no one else to talk to. My roommates are terrible bores, always complaining. What’s the point of wasting time on that? Behind the main building is a hospice where I stay. Once there, it’s clear the end is inevitable. I’d trade this bench for a cruise ship — one last voyage,” he chuckled.
“Why are you still here then?” Margaret asked.
“It’s another matter. I’m broke. My family shipped me off here, the flat’s been signed over to my grandson, and they even collect my pension. But I don’t hold it against them. They’re young and probably think they need it more,” he added quickly.
“No, no, it’s fine,” Margaret listened intently, a deep furrow forming between her brows.
All her life, Margaret hadn’t lived as she wanted. She realized that now. She didn’t love her job, but it paid well. The mortgage, helping her daughter… it kept her there. She’d stopped loving her husband long ago, discovering his infidelities years back. Instead of leaving, she worried no one would want her. If she wasn’t even interesting to the man who’d once proposed on bended knee, who would she appeal to?
Margaret gave her daughter everything, often at her own expense. Now, her daughter only called when she needed a babysitter or to complain about her husband’s wage issues, and Margaret would always help. But Margaret had also secretly saved ‘for a rainy day’, a lesson from hard times in the past.
“I’m filing for divorce,” she shocked her husband upon coming home. “And for a division of property. You can keep the house if you pay me my share. I’m leaving. It’d be familiar and comfortable for you here,” she said, looking around the room.
“Where to?” her husband asked, processing the news.
“Traveling,” she replied simply. “We can divorce without being present now. Think about it. I’ll be staying at Lucy’s cottage for a bit,” she said, packing.
“I don’t get it,” her husband admitted, truly perplexed.
“We should’ve done this sooner. There’s still time for both of us to be happy,” Margaret said as she stood at the door.
She applied for leave from work with intent to resign subsequently, avoiding the notice period. Withdrew all her savings and started booking trips.
“Mum, can you pick up Jamie today? We’re exhausted and want a night out,” her daughter rang that day.
“No,” Margaret replied shortly.
“What? Why?”
“I have plans.”
“Can’t you reschedule? There’s a group dinner, we can’t miss it,” her daughter pleaded.
“Hire a sitter.”
“Mum, sitters are expensive,” her daughter protested.
“Then you’ll find a way to afford it,” Margaret remained firm. Her daughter grumbled before hanging up. Margaret sighed deeply but knew she was doing the right thing.
At Lucy’s cottage, it was peaceful. The autumn air was crisp, fragrant with apples. Margaret sat in the hammock chair, legs tucked in like a child and thought. At times, she feared she was being selfish with family. But then she’d recall the elder and reassure herself. She’d lived for others all her life; it was time for herself. Her resolve solidified, she smiled.
Her husband reached out, but more out of surprise than anything. She understood their relationship had long expired. After three days, he agreed to compensate her within a few months. Margaret felt content. Shortly after, she found herself at a seaside café. The velvet-season drew many, from families to couples. Margaret watched them, amusing herself by imagining their life stories.
“Good evening. Is this seat free?” A man approached her table.
“Please, sit,” Margaret welcomed.
“On such a lovely night, it’d be a crime to stay in. Everyone must think the same; there isn’t a free table around,” he laughed.
“And they’re right. I’m Margaret,” she introduced, deciding this evening deserved some company.
“George,” he replied. “I’m a writer; inspiration strikes at night, causing me to miss many beautiful evenings. I’m glad today’s thoughts escaped me, leading me outside,” he said genuinely, indicating her presence made his night better.
“Fascinating. What do you write about?” Margaret asked.
“Stories about people for people,” George gestured.
“I know a few interesting tales,” Margaret pointed out a couple deeply engaged nearby. “Do you know what they’re discussing?” She crafted an imaginary narration for the couple, spinning tales of a young artist and an oligarch’s daughter who defied odds for love.
“Do you know them?” George asked, glancing over.
“No,” Margaret smiled. Playfully, she inquired, “Think I have a future as a writer?”
“The plot’s classic but timeless. If your hero painted the devil and went mad, it’d be intriguing,” George played along. “What about that group?” He nodded towards another table hosting two women and two men, one woman seemingly lost in thought.
“It’s obvious…” Margaret began, crafting a fresh narrative.
——
“Margaret, what do you think?” George eagerly looked between her and a quaint vine-covered cottage. “The garden’s a bit wild, but it’s nice overall. Thoughts?”
“It’s charming,” Margaret agreed, though George sensed a hint of sorrow.
“What’s wrong?” He wrapped an arm around her.
“Everything’s fine. I’m just tired,” Margaret tried to smile.
Two months had passed since that evening. George had fallen head over heels for her, he claimed, and Margaret’s feelings were mutual, though terrifying. Fearful of her illness, pressing time, and the secret she kept from George. George proposed they settle by the sea.
“I can write anywhere, and you’ll be my muse,” he envisioned their blissful future.
“Lovely idea. I’ll tend the garden and bake your favorite pumpkin pies,” Margaret whispered, trying to push away her fears. “Let it be as it may. I won’t say a word,” she decided.
They moved in and were truly happy, sharing breakfasts by the window, strolling the evening shores. To give George space, Margaret took on volunteer work at a local charity, finding joy in helping others. Months flew by; surprisingly, her health didn’t worsen. In fact, she felt great. Margaret kept regular contact with her daughter, whom gradually came around to her choice, even planning a summer visit for Jamie.
Her ex had settled the owed money and announced he was remarrying. Margaret sincerely wished him well, genuinely content.
“Margaret Smith? It’s Dr. Evans,” an early call awoke her.
“I’m listening,” Margaret nervously replied.
“I’m terribly sorry, a horrible mistake occurred! Your lab tests got mixed,” Dr. Evans apologized profusely.
“So what was wrong with me? I felt awful,” Margaret asked, confused.
“Nothing really, perhaps stress or nerves,” he admitted awkwardly.
“But I’m not sorry,” Margaret looked at George, still asleep. “Thank you, truly.” Ending the call, she headed to the kitchen to cook breakfast, feeling truly happy.
