**Living for Myself**
*”I’m only forty-nine…”* Margaret stared blankly at the doctor. *”Is there really nothing that can be done?”* she asked, her voice trembling with hope.
*”With the right treatment, certain procedures could buy you another year, maybe eighteen months,”* Dr. Anthony Rutherford replied, tapping his pencil against the desk. Over his long career, he’d grown accustomed to shock, tears, even accusations—every patient reacted differently to a terminal diagnosis.
*”I’ll think about it,”* was all Margaret said before walking out.
Until recently, she’d never had serious health issues—hardly even caught a cold. But a few months ago, sensing something was wrong, she went to the hospital. A tumour, the doctors concluded, was inoperable. *”Six to eight months,”* Anthony had pronounced. Margaret didn’t cry, didn’t blame anyone for missing it sooner. All she could think was how short six months was. She wouldn’t even reach her fiftieth birthday.
*”Lovely day, isn’t it?”* A voice pulled her from her thoughts. Lost in contemplation on a bench outside the hospital, she hadn’t noticed the old man sitting beside her. He leaned on his cane, back straight, squinting at the sun.
*”Sorry if I startled you,”* he apologised when she flinched.
*”Not at all,”* Margaret forced a smile. *”It really is a beautiful day.”*
*”At my age, I’m grateful for rainy ones too—but sunny ones like this? Special. Call it an old man’s fancy, but I’d like my last day to be warm and bright.”*
*”You speak so calmly about death,”* Margaret said, surprised.
*”I’m ninety-four,”* he chuckled. *”Besides, death comes for us all. Who knows when? Best to be ready. Pity I realised that too late—otherwise, I wouldn’t have kept putting things off. ‘Later’ might never come.”* He glanced at her. *”What would you do if you knew you’d die tomorrow?”* Then he waved a hand. *”Forgive me—lonely old man rambling. The chaps in my ward? Dreadful bores, always moaning. But what’s the point? The hospice behind that building—that’s where we end up. And once you’re there, well… only one way out.”* He grinned. *”I’d trade this bench for a cruise ship. One last voyage.”*
*”Then why are you still here?”* Margaret asked.
*”Ah. No money. Family signed me over, flat’s in my grandson’s name now, even my pension goes to them. But I don’t mind. Young folk—they need it more, I suppose.”* He sighed. *”Apologies—I’ve talked your ear off.”*
*”No, no,”* Margaret murmured, listening intently, a deep furrow forming between her brows.
And then it struck her—she’d never lived as she truly wanted. Hated her job, but it paid well. First, there was the mortgage. Then helping her daughter and son-in-law. That’s why she stayed. As for her husband? She’d stopped loving him years ago. Found out about his affairs—regular, with different women. She cried then, but stayed, fearing no one else would want her. Not even the man who’d once knelt like a knight to propose.
She’d been a good wife—kept the house spotless, meals ready, never made a scene. Loved her daughter, spoiled her, sacrificed for her. Now, her daughter only called when she needed a babysitter or money—*”No winter coat, no shoes, no bonus this month…”* And Margaret always obliged, putting off her own needs, secretly saving for a rainy day.
*”I’m filing for divorce,”* she told her husband that evening. *”And dividing assets. You can keep the flat if you buy me out. I don’t need it—I’m leaving.”* She smiled, glancing around. *”You’ll be comfortable here.”*
*”Where are you going?”* he asked, stunned.
*”Travelling.”* She shrugged, pulling out a suitcase. *”Think it over. I’ll stay at Lucy’s cottage till then.”*
*”I don’t understand,”* he muttered.
*”Should’ve done this sooner. We both still have time to be happy.”* With that, she left.
At work, she took unpaid leave, then resigned to skip notice. Emptied her savings. That afternoon, her daughter called: *”Mum, can you take Jake tonight? We’re exhausted—fancy a dinner out.”*
*”No,”* Margaret said flatly.
*”What? Why?”*
*”I have plans.”*
*”Can’t you reschedule? It’s a group thing—we can’t cancel!”* Her daughter whined.
*”Hire a sitter.”*
*”Mum, that’s expensive!”*
*”You’ve got money for restaurants—you’ll manage.”* Margaret held firm. Her daughter huffed and hung up.
Lucy’s cottage was peaceful. The autumn air smelled of apples and late roses. Margaret curled up in a hammock, wrestling with guilt—*Was she selfish?* Then she remembered the old man. *”I’ve lived for others my whole life. Don’t I deserve this?”* By dusk, she’d decided: *Yes.*
Her husband called, baffled, but she stood her ground. Three days later, he agreed to buy her out.
A week after that, she was dining by the sea. The restaurant buzzed with late-season tourists. Watching families and couples, she amused herself by inventing backstories for them.
*”Evening. Mind if I join you?”* A man gestured to her table. *”Seems criminal to stay indoors on a night like this.”*
*”Of course,”* Margaret said.
*”George. Writer. Usually holed up working, but tonight—stuck. Glad I came out.”* His smile said her company was a bonus.
*”Margaret. What do you write?”*
*”Stories about people, for people.”*
She pointed to a young couple nearby, whispering, hands clasped. *”See them? He’s a penniless artist. She’s a tycoon’s daughter. Ran away together—tonight’s their first taste of freedom.”* She spun the tale on the spot.
George laughed. *”Know them?”*
*”No.”* She grinned. *”Made it up. Think I could write?”*
*”Clichéd but timeless. Now, if he actually painted the devil after a trip to hell, then went mad—that’d intrigue me.”* He nodded at another table. *”What about that lot?”*
Margaret leaned in, mischief in her eyes. *”Ah, now that’s obvious…”*
—
*”Well? What do you think?”* George watched her face as they stood before a vine-covered cottage. *”Garden’s wild, but it’s got charm.”*
*”It’s lovely,”* Margaret said, but he caught the sadness in her voice.
*”What’s wrong?”* He squeezed her shoulders.
*”Nothing. Just tired.”* She forced a smile.
Two months had passed since that dinner. George had fallen for her—*”Like a schoolboy,”* he’d said. She loved him too, but guilt gnawed at her. She hadn’t told him about the diagnosis.
*”I can write anywhere,”* he’d insisted. *”Stay here with me. Be my muse.”*
*”I’ll learn to garden. Bake your favourite treacle tarts.”* She kissed his cheek, pushing fears aside. *”Let it be.”*
They moved in. Mornings were coffee by the window, evenings walks on the shore. To keep busy, she volunteered at a charity. Months slipped by—no pain, no weakness. Her daughter thawed, even promised to send Jake for summer. Her ex paid her share and mentioned remarrying. *”I’m happy for you,”* she’d said—and meant it.
Then, one morning, her phone rang.
*”Margaret? It’s Anthony. There’s been a terrible mistake…”*
Her heart pounded. *”Go on.”*
*”The lab mixed up the results. Those weren’t your tests.”*
*”Then what was wrong with me?”*
*”Nothing. Stress, fatigue—it happens. I’m so sorry.”*
Margaret looked at George, still asleep. *”Don’t be,”* she whispered. *”Thank you.”*
She hung up and headed to the kitchen to make breakfast. For the first time in years, she was truly happy.
—
**Lesson learned:** Life’s too short to live for others. Sometimes a mistake is the best thing that ever happens to you.
