Living for Herself
“I’m only 49…” Margaret looked at the doctor, bewildered. “Is there really nothing that can be done?” she asked hopefully.
“With the right treatment and certain procedures, we can extend the time frame, perhaps by a year or so,” Dr. Andrew Matthews tapped a pencil on his desk, having just made some notes on Margaret’s record. Throughout his long career, he had witnessed all kinds of reactions to a prognosis of terminal illness—from shock to tears, hysteria, and even accusations.
“I’ll have to think about it,” Margaret replied and left his office.
Until recently, Margaret hadn’t faced any major health problems, rarely even catching a cold. But a few months back, when she sensed something was wrong, she went to the hospital. Unfortunately, the doctors deemed the tumor inoperable. Six to eight months, Dr. Matthews had predicted. Margaret didn’t cry or blame anyone for failing to catch it sooner. She simply imagined how brief six months truly was; she wouldn’t even see her next birthday.
“What a lovely day,” an unfamiliar voice brought Margaret out of her somber thoughts. Leaving the hospital, she sat on a bench and barely noticed when an elderly gentleman joined her. He leaned on his cane and, squinting toward the sun, maintained a straight posture.
“Apologies if I disturbed you,” he said when he noticed Margaret startle.
“No, it’s nothing,” Margaret tried to smile. “The weather is indeed beautiful.”
“At my age, I cherish even the rainy days, but I’m particularly grateful for sunny ones like this. Those are special. You might 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 in surprise.
“I’m 94,” the old man chuckled. “Besides, no one is immune to death. Who knows when it’ll come knocking? Best be ready at all times. I just wish I’d realized it sooner. I delayed so many things because, well, who knows if later will ever come? What would you do if you knew you’d die tomorrow? Forgive me for prying, it’s rare to have a conversation. My fellow hospice residents are such bores. There’s no point in wasting time with all the grumbling. The hospice is just behind the main hospital, where we reside. It’s clear that once we’re there, the only way out is feet first. I’d much rather be on a cruise ship for my last journey,” he laughed. “Wonder why I’m still here? Well, that’s simple—I haven’t got the money. My family put me here, signed over my flat to my grandson, and now they even collect my pension. But I don’t hold a grudge—they’re young and probably think they need it more. I’m sorry for rambling on.”
“No, it’s quite alright,” Margaret listened intently, a deep frown settling between her brows.
Margaret realized she had lived all her life for others, not for herself. She didn’t love her job but stayed for the pay, first to pay off a mortgage, then to help her daughter and son-in-law. As for her husband, she stopped loving him long ago. Ten years earlier, she’d found out he was unfaithful, and not just once. She cried from the betrayal but didn’t leave him out of fear she’d have no one. If not even her husband, who’d once gallantly proposed, found her interesting, who else would? Margaret thought of herself as the perfect wife—keeping the home spotless, cooking meals, providing comfort—with never a hint of hysteria. She adored her daughter, always trying to give her the best, even at the cost of her own needs. But now, all her daughter wanted was help with the grandson or cash when money was tight.
“I’m filing for divorce,” Margaret announced upon returning home. “And I want my share of the assets. You can keep the flat if you buy out my half. I don’t need it. I’m moving on. This place suits you,” she glanced around the room with a slight smile.
“Where will you go?” her husband asked, processing the news.
“Traveling,” Margaret responded simply. “You don’t even need to be present for a quick divorce,” she added as she packed. “Think it over; I’ll be at Lucy’s cottage in the meantime.”
“I don’t understand,” her husband said, genuinely confused.
“It should have happened sooner. We both deserve happiness,” she told him at the door.
At work, she applied for unpaid leave with the intent to resign soon. She withdrew all her savings and began planning trips.
“Mum, can you pick up Jason tonight? We’re a bit tired and want to go out for dinner,” her daughter called that day.
“No,” Margaret replied shortly.
“Why not? Can’t you do it another day? We’ve got plans,” her daughter pleaded.
“Hire a babysitter.”
“Mum, they’re expensive!” she complained.
“You have money for a restaurant; you can afford a sitter.” Margaret held firm.
Her daughter grumbled but hung up. Margaret sighed heavily but felt she had done the right thing.
At Lucy’s cottage, tranquility and the crisp, dry autumn air surrounded her. Evenings wafted scents of flowers and apples. Margaret sat curled in a hanging chair, lost in thought. Initially, she felt like a selfish person for leaving her family, but the encounter with the old man kept surfacing in her mind. She had spent her life living for others. Surely, in her final months, she deserved to live for herself? This decision brought her a sense of peace as she smiled to herself.
Her husband called, seeking to hash things out, but mostly out of shock and obligation. Margaret realized their relationship had long since expired and stood her ground. After three days, he conceded to buying out her share over the coming months. Margaret felt content. Two days later, she found herself at a seaside café, observing families and couples as they strolled by. For amusement, she concocted stories about their lives.
“Good evening. Is this seat taken?” a man approached her table.
“Please, have a seat,” Margaret replied.
“It would be a crime to spend such a wonderful evening alone indoors. Apparently, everyone else thought the same—no free tables left!” he laughed, explaining his situation.
“They’re right. I’m Margaret,” she introduced herself, feeling bold. She decided the evening called for some company.
“I’m George,” the man replied. “I’m an author. Most evenings, inspiration strikes, so I often miss enjoying them. Tonight, however, nothing came, so I ventured out. Meeting you makes it even better.”
Margaret was intrigued: “What do you write about?”
“People and their stories,” George gestured broadly.
“I know a few interesting tales myself,” she said, pointing to a young couple whispering sweetly at a nearby table. They held hands, almost touching foreheads, gazing into each other’s eyes. “Do you know what they’re whispering about?” Margaret shared the fictional story she had just concocted: the young man was an aspiring artist, penniless, while the girl was the daughter of a wealthy man who disapproved of their love. They had run away and this was their first night of freedom. She believed in his talent, and he swore he’d journey even to hell to capture the first likeness of the devil.
“Do you know them?” George asked, glancing over.
“No,” Margaret laughed lightheartedly. “I just made that up—do you think I could be a writer?”
“The plot is classic but timeless. Now, if the artist truly painted the devil and then went mad, that would be intriguing,” George joined her imaginative game. “How about that group?” he gestured towards a table with two women and two men, one of whom quietly stared out to sea.
“Oh, that’s simple…” Margaret squinted playfully and spun another tale.
—
“Margie, do you like it?” George asked eagerly as he watched Margaret gaze at a quaint ivy-covered cottage. “The garden needs a little TLC, but otherwise it seems nice. What do you think?”
“It’s charming,” she agreed, though George sensed an undertone of sadness.
“What’s wrong?” he wrapped an arm around her shoulders.
“It’s nothing, really. I’m just tired,” she tried to smile.
It had been nearly two months since that fateful evening. George fell for Margaret head over heels, like a young boy. Margaret reciprocated his feelings, which also scared her, as did her illness, the ticking clock, and the fact that she hadn’t told George. George suggested they stay near the sea.
“I can write anywhere, and you can be my muse,” he envisioned a happy life in their seaside home.
“Wonderful idea. I’ll learn to garden and make your favorite pumpkin pies,” Margaret kissed George’s cheek, brushing away distressing thoughts. “Let it be, as it will be,” she resolved.
They moved into the house and were happy. They drank coffee at the window each morning, strolled along the shore each evening. Keeping out of George’s way during the day, Margaret volunteered at a charity, enjoying helping others. Another month passed, then another—Margaret waited for her health to decline, but instead felt splendid. She frequently called her daughter, who initially reacted with skepticism, misunderstanding, even disapproval, but eventually warmed up. She even promised to send the grandson for the summer.
Her husband completed the buyout and casually announced he planned to remarry. Margaret was genuinely happy for him.
One morning, a call from Dr. Matthews woke Margaret.
“Hello?” she answered, somewhat tense.
“Margaret, this is Dr. Matthews,” he sounded as nervous. “I’m so sorry, but there was a terrible mix-up in the lab. The tests weren’t yours.”
“Then what caused my illness? I truly felt unwell,” Margaret asked, confused.
“Nothing serious—just stress, fatigue. It happens sometimes. I’m very sorry,” the doctor apologized, sounding embarrassed.
“Oh, I’m not sorry at all,” Margaret glanced at the still-sleeping George. “Thank you.” She ended the call, headed to the kitchen, and began making breakfast. Happiness filled her completely.
