The medicine box sat on the table, the silver foil of the tablets
glinting under the light.
I remembered what the doctor had said:
“One pill a day, on time. Otherwise, the strain on his heart will be too
much.”
I reached out and gave the box a slight push.
It slid off the edge and fell into the trash bin.
“Lucas,” I said quietly, as if he were still there,
“You don’t have to worry. I won’t take care of your heart anymore.”
That night, I left the house for good.
I took nothing with me—no gifts, no goodbyes.
Three days later, the divorce became official.
When the lawyer’s confirmation email arrived, I was sitting on a bench
by the sea.
The wind tangled my hair and tasted faintly of salt.
For the first time, I felt what it meant to breathe freely.
I thought the story was finally over.
Until two weeks later, a call came from an unfamiliar number.
“Mrs. Wilson?”
“This is she.”
“I’m the assistant to designer Solomon Jennings. He saw your portfolio
at Paris Fashion Week and would like to invite you to collaborate.”
On the other end, faint background music played—
the sound of waves breaking against a distant shore.
I was silent for a few seconds before a small smile curved my lips.