A Wake-Up Call to Let Me Escape From the Garbage

On my birthday of 49, my brain tumor had another attack.

My vision has become blurry, and my brain can no longer think clearly.

I knew that I may not have many days left to live.

The medical staff worked hard to keep me stable, and they picked up my phone to contact my families.

When the nurse dialed the 10th call, I finally heard my wife's voice, which was full of anger: "Why are you so annoying? Why do you keep calling me? I'm going to fly to Florence with Tim - don't contact me unless there's an emergency."

Then my daughter's voice came over, sounding very cold: "Mom, if this man passes away, that would be great. The insurance money can be directly transferred to my account. I have always wanted a new motorcycle."

After hearing this, I have no resentment.

Strangely, I actually feel like the burden on me is disappearing.

Perhaps it's finally time to bid farewell to this unfortunate life.

------

When I regained consciousness, the physician handed me my phone, his face somber.

"Mr. Carter, the growth is putting pressure on your neural pathways.

You require immediate surgical intervention. You should confer with your loved ones about this."

Still dazed, I held the device loosely.

The hospital ward was quiet except for the soft whirring of equipment. I could sense the sympathy emanating from other patients and their visitors. Some even averted their gaze, discretely dabbing at their eyes.

I looked at my phone screen—my wife, Monica, and my daughter, Julia, had already cut off communication with me.

With no other options, I sent a message to someone I never thought I'd reach out to: Monica's former flame, Tim.

"Please inform Monica she needs to return. It's critical."

To prevent any confusion, I added: "I want to discuss divorce proceedings with her. It's crucial."

After spending several hours recuperating at the medical facility, I collected my medication and made my way home.

As I entered, I found Monica already seated on the sofa.

She was dressed for a getaway: large sunglasses perched on her nose, a broad-brimmed straw hat on her head, and a flowing bohemian dress that moved with her every motion.

The moment she spotted me, she let out a harsh chuckle and slammed her eyewear onto the table.

"Really? What's your problem now? Tim and I were at the terminal, ready to board, and you pulled me back here for this nonsense. No wonder Julia finds you unbearable!"

At 45, Monica had fine creases around her eyes, but thanks to her meticulous skincare routine, her complexion remained firm, her cosmetics flawless. Her bold crimson lipstick and voluminous locks made her appear much younger than her years.

Behind her, Tim stood attentively, kneading her shoulders. He leaned down, whispering in her ear with an intimacy that made my insides churn.

"Monica, take it easy," he said gently. "Let's listen to what Carter has to say. It might be significant."

Tim, naturally, still carried himself with grace. Despite the rigidity in his Botox-treated face, his custom-tailored suit lent him an air of refinement.

I gazed at them and felt... nothing.

My thoughts wandered back to the time Monica forgot Julia's third birthday cake. She'd been too preoccupied with Tim's unexpected return to the country.

Later, when I collected an inebriated Monica from a tavern, I overheard her telling her friends how I was merely a substitute for Tim.

Now, my graying hair and weary countenance bore no resemblance to the man she once adored.

Returning to the present, I produced the divorce papers and set them on the table.

"Monica," I said evenly, "let's end our marriage."

Her eyes widened in shock, her body tensing as if she hadn't heard me correctly.

"Excuse me?" she hissed, her voice rising. "First, you pretend to be ill to get me back from the airport, and now you're throwing a fit about divorce? Carter, you're nearly fifty. When will you mature?"

Her words stung, but I remained composed.

Indeed, I was turning 49 today.

If she'd gone into the kitchen, she would've seen the partially prepared ingredients I'd been chopping before the tumor episode—ingredients for dishes she and Julia enjoyed.

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 label me as melodramatic and needy.

People say those near death speak only the truth.

I had no desire to argue. Instead, I smiled faintly.

"It's nothing," I said softly. "I just had a realization."

"There's no reason to keep you from Tim any longer."

Her eyes narrowed, but I continued.

"Last month, when you and Tim went to Alaska to view the aurora borealis, you probably didn't hear that my mother passed away."

Her lips parted slightly, but I didn't allow her to interrupt.

"My father died rescuing you from drowning years ago, and my mother 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 our surroundings.

"For the past two decades, I've worked diligently at your company to help it go public. That was my way of compensating you for everything my mother put you through."

I inhaled deeply, my tone softening.

"She's gone now. You don't have to fear her showing up at the office to berate you or cause a scene. You're free, Monica."

"For what it's worth, I wish you and Tim happiness. You've waited long enough—give him the life he deserves."

The burden I'd carried for years lifted as I spoke those words.

Monica, however, gripped the divorce papers tightly, her knuckles whitening.

Her voice quavered as she said, "I've endured you for over twenty years. What about Julia? Have you even considered how she'll feel about this?"

Julia's words echoed in my mind: "If he dies, that'd be great."

I smiled weakly.

"She'll be alright," I replied, nodding toward Tim. "She prefers him to me anyway. Let him look after her."

Years ago, when Julia was young, Monica had already begun relying on Tim to assist 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 appearing pleased, Monica's expression darkened. She bit her lip so hard it looked as if she might draw blood.

Her chest heaved as she tried to compose herself, her gaze fixed on me, searching for the anger or jealousy I'd always displayed in the past.

But this time, all she saw was indifference.

Her voice dropped, cold and cutting: "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 financial support.

But I simply nodded.

"That's fine," I said. "I don't need the house, the money, or even Julia."