He trashed my dinner and dined with his mistress—after our divorce, karma hit back

At the age of 65, my life was completely turned upside down. My husband, despite my objections, brought his sick first love into our home and insisted that I, as his wife, take care of her every need. She poured an entire bag of salt into my meals, added dish soap to my water, and even resorted to physical violence against me. My husband simply said, “She's sick; don't hold it against her.” I endured, and my own son, who had more free time than I did after work, expected me to pick up my granddaughter, cook all three

meals, handle the household chores, and even yelled at me, “Mom, you're at home all day; why can't you do more?” I still endured, but they never considered that my patience had its limits. When that man, who had never even bought me a flower, gently combed the hair of his first love, bought her dresses, and sang songs with her while I spent my life cooking—only to have my efforts trumped by a few leftovers she shoved into his arms—I finally realized it was time to end all these years of suffering. So, I put down my spatula, packed

my bags, and walked away with grace. They thought I couldn't live without them, but little did they know it was them who couldn't live without me. While I traveled, made videos with young people, and tried new things, he stayed at home, overwhelmed, tormented by the very first love he once protected. In the end, he couldn't take it anymore; sick in bed, he finally regretted it all and called out, “Vivien, come back,” but sadly, there’s no turning back in life. I was already on my way. From now on, I will live only for myself. Noah had

another episode; she wouldn't stop pouring salt into the meal I had struggled to prepare. I tried to stop her, but with Alzheimer's, she was more stubborn than a child and surprisingly strong. She wouldn't relent until she had dumped an entire bag of salt into the pot. I rushed to fish the bag out with a spoon, but the damage was done; the salt had already dissolved into the beef stew. The door opened; Paul went back out after his jogging round, carrying a beautiful dress, but it wasn't for me; it was for Noah. Even at 65, even

with her illness stealing most of her memories, she still clapped her hands like a little girl when she saw a dress she liked. Then, like a magician, Paul pulled out a flower from behind his back—not a rose, just a wildflower plucked from the side of the road, fresh, fragrant, still glistening with raindrops. Noah’s face lit up with joy; she was no longer the woman who had just thrown a tantrum in the kitchen. Now she simply sat quietly on the couch, holding her wildflower and new dress as if they were the most precious treasures in the

world. Paul, pleased to see her happy, strode into the kitchen. He didn't notice the exhaustion on my face as he grabbed a spoon and tasted the stew. He frowned. “It's too salty! Why do you always mess up something so simple? Can't you even do one thing right?” Something in my mind snapped. Before I could say a word, before I could even explain, Paul, already furious, grabbed the entire pot of stew and hurled it to the floor. He didn't care about my reaction; he just took Noah by the hand and walked toward the door. “Forget it!

I'll take her out to eat. You can stay here and figure out how to save all these terrible meals by yourself.” The door slammed shut behind them, and in an instant, the entire house fell into a suffocating silence. I stood there, dazed, staring at the mess around me: the petals Noah had scattered across the floor, the pile of dirty clothes she had carelessly tossed aside, and the beef stew now splattered across the tiles, seeping into every crevice. I looked at it, feeling like I couldn't step past the mess no matter how hard I tried; my

strength left me. I leaned against the counter and slowly slid down to the floor. It was as if, in that moment, I had lost the ability to move, to think, to feel anything but exhaustion, and that's how I stayed, crouched on the kitchen floor until my son Jorge came home from work. The moment he stepped inside, he shouted, “Where's Lily? Mom, did you forget to pick up Lily?” He stormed into the kitchen, stopping short when he saw the mess; his gaze flickered from the spilled stew to me slumped against the cabinets. Then he took a

step back and yelled again, “Mom, why didn't you pick up Lily?” I lifted my head; he stood against the light, his face obscured in shadow. “Didn't we agree that you'd pick her up from now on?” I didn't answer. For a second, he hesitated, but it didn't last. “I work all day; you're at home! Why can't you just pick up your own granddaughter?” But he was always done with work before 3:00, and Lily didn't get out of school until 3:30. I murmured, “I'm overwhelmed. I'm too tired.” No one heard me. The only response was the sound

of another door slamming shut. Jorge left, leaving me alone in the house. I stared out the window; the setting sun painted the sky in gold and crimson. Its light, so bright it burned my eyes, was so bright that I couldn't stop the tears from falling. How did it come to this? Day after day, year after year, taking care of Paul, taking care of Jorge, taking care of Jorge's daughter Lily. Maybe none of that would have mattered; after all, they were my family, and I loved them. With all my heart, but now I had to take

care of Paul's first love, Noah, the woman he had idolized his whole life—the woman who now had Alzheimer's. I stared at the spilled beef stew on the floor, the mess a perfect reflection of my chaotic life. I looked at it for a long time. Then, I lifted my foot and stepped right through it. I didn't care about the footprints I left behind; let whoever wanted to clean it, clean it. I walked into the bedroom, pulled the covers over me, shut my eyes, and forced my mind to go blank. Outside, the sun slowly sank beyond the

horizon. The front door opened again; laughter and chatter drifted into the house. Someone asked, "Why are the lights off?" I heard Paul mumbling something, then the flick of a switch. Silence followed; then came the sound of heavy, angry footsteps heading toward the bedroom. Paul flung the door open. Maybe he was trying not to scare his precious Noah, so he kept his voice restrained, but I could still hear the anger simmering beneath. "Why haven't you cleaned up the mess in the kitchen? There are dirty footprints everywhere. Noah could slip and get hurt!" "Why me?" I stared

at the ceiling as I asked. Paul looked at me like he didn't understand the question. He reached for the light switch, and only then did I notice that his other hand was still holding Noah's. "I just said the soup was too salty. I dumped it so you could make it again and actually learn how to cook properly. Did you really have to throw a tantrum over it? The doctor said Noah can't have high sodium meals, which is why I got upset. Maybe I overreacted a little, but it was for her health." My vision blurred. I

forced myself to stay calm, to keep my voice from shaking. Inside, I felt everything at once: sadness, anger, disappointment, and an overwhelming sense of worthlessness. It was Noah who kept pouring salt into the pot, but she's sick! Paul cut me off without hesitation; his face was filled with nothing but impatience and disdain. "Do you really need to argue with someone who's ill? Can't you just be a little more understanding?" As if I was the one being unreasonable. The front door opened again. Jorge had come home with his wife, Lucy, and Lily. The moment Jorge stepped

inside, he called out, "Mom, I'm starving! Let's eat!" Lily ran in with her backpack bouncing behind her. "Grandma, my teacher assigned a craft project! We have to make a picture with river stones. Come with me to find some, okay?" I sat up, staring at the ever-growing trail of footprints across the floor. No one—not a single one of them—had stopped to clean the mess. Everyone just stepped over it, like it wasn't even there, like it was understood that cleaning up wasn't their job, it was mine. Paul turned to Jorge as he led Noah away, his voice

laced with mockery. "Forget it. Eat out. Your mother's in one of her moods today. Decided she's on strike." Jorge clicked his tongue in annoyance and followed him out. One by one, they all came in together, and one by one, they all left. Someone on their way out flicked off the light, and just like that, the house was dark again, empty again. The only thing left in the silence was Paul's parting words still echoing in my ears: "Hurry up and clean the floor. Noah likes to sit on the ground and play sometimes." That was it. He

hadn't asked if I'd eaten, hadn't asked if I was okay—nothing. Before Noah moved in, I never knew Paul was capable of being so gentle, thoughtful, and romantic toward someone else. We had been married for 30 years, and in all that time, he had almost never given me flowers. But he didn't smoke, didn't drink, came from a well-off family, and never hesitated when he needed to spend money on me. He was a programmer—a logical, analytical man. Romance wasn't his strong suit, and I had convinced myself that it was fine, that even if he wasn't tender or

affectionate, life would go on. I had always believed that's just the way he was. But then Noah got sick, and Paul—ignoring my protests—insisted on bringing her into our home. That was when I realized Paul did know how to make a woman happy. Watching Paul care for Noah felt like looking back in time, like seeing 18-year-old Paul and 18-year-old Noah all over again. When they were together, they only had eyes for each other. They looked like a young couple, radiant, brimming with youth. They had no money, but they had love, and that was enough. Me, I

was like so many women who become a man's second-best choice—the one he settled for, not the one he truly loved. I was the practical decision, not the one his heart had longed for, and at 65 years old, I was only just realizing it. But the good thing was, even now, it wasn't too late. That night, I didn't bother finding out who, if anyone, had finally given in and cleaned up the mess in the kitchen. I had gone to bed early. At some point in the night, I vaguely felt Paul shaking my shoulder, trying to rouse

me. He wanted me to get up, clean the floor, and bathe Noah. I rolled over and ignored him, pretending not to hear. He called my name a few more times, but when I didn't respond, he gave up. In the end, he let Noah go to bed as she was and didn't come back to our room. I figured he had gone to sleep with her instead. For the first time in a long time. I had the bedroom to myself, and I slept soundly until morning. I couldn't even remember the last time I had slept that well.

At some point, I had fallen into a pattern: being the first one awake to cook for everyone and the last one to sleep after tidying up the house. But why, when I woke up, didn’t I call anyone? I simply got dressed and went out for a walk. By the time I returned, it was past eight. Paul saw me and immediately scowled. "Where did you go?" Without saying a word, I replied, "Noah's hungry." I set my bag down, hung up my coat, and walked straight to the bedroom. "Then make her something yourself! Why are you waiting

for me?" Paul froze, clearly caught off guard. He hadn't expected me to refuse him so firmly. After all, I had spent decades serving them without complaint. Finally, he muttered something about me acting crazy again, grabbed his keys, and took Noah out for breakfast. But when Noah and I were alone in the house, she would sometimes hit me on purpose. She saw me as the bad woman stealing Paul away from her. Once, she even poured dish soap into my water. If I had noticed the bubbles, I would have drunk it. I used to tell Paul about

these things, hoping he would do something about it, but his response was always the same: "She's sick. Do you really have to make such a big deal out of it? Can't you have a little sympathy?" I had suggested sending Noah to a nursing home, somewhere nice where she could receive proper care. It would ease our burden too, but Paul refused. He said nursing homes weren't attentive enough, and in a way, he wasn't wrong. After all, who else would be as dedicated as I had been? Who else would have spent years working tirelessly, cooking balanced meals,

washing clothes, and cleaning the house like an unpaid housekeeper? But I didn't want to do it anymore. I moved into Jorge's house. Lucy didn't say much; in fact, she seemed happy to have someone around to help take care of Lily. But Jorge kept trying to convince me to go back. "Dad can't live alone, Mom. How could you just leave him like that?" I didn't even bother looking up. "He's got two hands and two feet, just like me. If I can manage, so can he." Jorge had no response to that, but he didn't give up. When

my birthday came around, he insisted on celebrating it properly, begging me to cook a meal. After much persuasion, I gave in. I spent the whole afternoon in the kitchen, making Lily's favorite apple pie and Jorge's favorite seafood risotto. By the time the kids got home from school and Jorge finished work, I had everything ready and was excited to bring the dishes to the table. Then Jorge opened the door, revealing Paul and Noah standing behind him. Paul stepped forward, holding a cake. His face stretched into a smile that was meant to look warm but felt anything

but. "Dear, happy birthday!" I froze. Then I looked down at Lily, clapping excitedly beside me, and let out a quiet sigh. "Just put it down." I couldn't exactly tell him to get out—not in front of the child— even though deep inside I already knew why he was here. This wasn't about me; he wasn't here because he truly felt sorry or because he wanted to make things right. He was here because he wanted to lure me back so I could continue being his and Noah's unpaid maid. Paul mistook my silence for forgiveness. He even offered to

go buy some wine and drinks for the celebration, then turned and left. Lily happily stuck candles into the cake but couldn't find a lighter, so I went to the bedroom to get one. When I came back, I was met with an unbelievable sight. Noah had taken all the food I had spent hours preparing and dumped it into the front of her dress, hoarding it like a child stuffing toys into their pockets. One hand was still gripping the cake, shoving handfuls of it inside as well. Lily stood there, wide-eyed, before bursting into frightened sobs. The sound

of her crying caught Noah's attention, and she turned toward her. Then, without hesitation, Noah reached out, ready to push Lily to the ground. I didn't think; I didn't have time to. My body reacted faster than my mind, and I shoved Noah away. At that exact moment, the door swung open. Paul had returned, and what he saw was me pushing Noah. His face contorted with fury. "Viven! What the hell are you doing? Have you lost your mind?" He dropped the bottles in his hands, the glass shattering against the floor as he rushed toward Noah. Of course,

she was fine; I hadn't even pushed her hard—just enough to keep her away from Lily. But she stood there, trembling, eyes red, looking like the most pitiful creature in the world. She turned her back to us and opened her hands to show Paul the food she had hidden. "For you," she whispered. "I saved it for you. They were eating without you, so I kept some just for you." Paul stared at the food in her hands, frozen. Then, without warning, he turned and flipped the entire table over. The dishes I had spent all day preparing on

my birthday crashed onto the floor. He glared at me, eyes blazing with rage. "Then he raised his hand as if he was about to hit me." "If you're angry, take it out on me," I said coldly. "But don't you dare act like I did something wrong." Paul's hand trembled, his face twisted with disgust. "I can't believe you," he spat. "I never thought you'd be this kind of person. You're nothing but a—" "Jealous, hysterical shrew!" Then, without another word, he grabbed Noah's arm and stormed out. Thirty years of marriage, and this was all it amounted to

in his heart? Noah saving him a handful of food meant more than the three decades I had spent cooking for him. Lucy was busy comforting Lily while Jorge sat at the dining table doing nothing but criticizing me. "Mom, come on! Noah's sick. Can't you just let it go?" Lucy tugged at his sleeve. She was about to push Lily if Vivien hadn't stepped in; Lily would have fallen, but Jorge dismissed it without a second thought. "You're both overreacting. Noah isn't like that." I looked at him cold and emotionless. He didn't notice; he couldn't see my exhaustion—he

couldn't see my pain. All he could see was his father's side of things. "Dad's just being a good man, and Mom, seriously, at your age, why are you still acting jealous like some scorned woman? It's embarrassing. You had a perfectly good home, and you're the one who ruined it. Just look at what you've done." I let out a sharp laugh, cutting him off. "A perfectly good home? Do you know what that was built on?" I thought of all the nights I'd stayed up late, exhausted and unable to sleep, all the times I'd gotten up alone

to rub the ache from my back. The peace you enjoyed came at the cost of my never-ending sacrifices. Lucy gave Jorge another warning tug, trying to get him to stop, but he just scoffed, his voice dripping with mockery. "Mom, stop exaggerating! It's just cooking and laundry! Since when is that some grand sacrifice? I know Noah; he's just sick. He forgets things. She acts a little childish. She's not this monster you're making her out to be! You just don't like her and want to kick her out!" I was so furious I almost laughed, listening to him

twist everything, blame everything on me. It made me wonder why I had bothered raising him at all. "Get out!" Jorge blinked in shock. I pointed to the door. "Get out of my sight!" His face darkened, and he shot up from his chair, yelling, "If anyone's leaving, it's you! This is my house!" It was hard to describe what I felt in that moment. I saw Lucy pinch Jorge's arm, saw the instant regret flash across his face after the words left his mouth. But it didn't matter; I had already realized something. This place was never my safe

haven either. I didn't argue with him. I simply turned and went to my room to pack my things. But once I had finished, I stood there looking at the small pile of belongings and realized there wasn't much to pack. Most of my clothes were years old, worn over and over again. I had always told myself there was no point in buying nice things at my age—better to spend the money on Jorge, on Lily, on anyone in the family but me. I thought of my best friend, long since passed, who had once warned me that I

was spoiling Jorge too much. Back then, I had laughed and waved her off. "No way!" I said confidently. "Jorge is my little sweetheart." I picked up a black winter coat from the pile. Jorge had bought it for me when he was just a boy. He had saved up money from walking neighbors' dogs and delivering newspapers, and on a cold winter morning, he had shyly handed it to me, beaming with pride. "Dads have daughters as their little princesses," he had said, "but I'm your son, so I'll be your little sweetheart." I held the coat for a

long time, then finally I took it out of my suitcase. Memories were beautiful, but they belonged to the past. I had no interest in being trapped in them anymore. I grabbed my suitcase and headed for the door, only to come face to face with Jorge, who had just stepped inside. He froze, then quickly blocked my way. "Mom, what are you doing? Where are you going?" I didn't have an answer. I had once owned a small apartment, but I had sold it to help Jorge buy his house. But what I did know was that I didn't

want to stay near any of them anymore. When I didn't respond, Jorge sighed. "Mom, I'm sorry! I shouldn't have yelled. Are you going home? Let me drive you. Just talk to Dad. You're married, good or bad; you're supposed to stick together. You need to understand him, be more patient!" I shook my head. "There's no need. Where I go from now on has nothing to do with you." After leaving Jorge's house, I checked into a hotel for a few nights. Then, as quickly as possible, I found a rental and hired a divorce attorney to draft an

agreement. Paul and I had built a modest fortune over the years—not too much, not too little, but enough for retirement. I didn't want all of it; half was fair enough. While the attorney printed the papers, I smiled and asked her, "Do many people my age come in for a divorce?" She was a young woman, barely thirty, and she didn't even look up as she replied with a casual smile, "Of course, plenty. Marriage is a choice, and women have choices too. No matter how old you are, you have the right to decide whether you want to

stay or leave." Something inside me loosened, like the last lock on my heart had finally been undone. "You're right," I murmured. No matter how old I was, as long as I was willing, I could still take charge of my life. Age wasn't an obstacle. And once I made up my mind, I wasn't going to settle any longer. Without hesitation, that very afternoon, I took the divorce papers. And went to see Paul. He looked genuinely surprised. He stared at the document in his hands for a long time without signing it. I glanced at Noah, who was

wearing the dress Paul had bought her that day. "The sooner you sign, the sooner you can give your first love the place she deserves," I said. "Wouldn't that make it easier for you to take care of her?" He pinched the bridge of his nose. "Vivian, I've told you so many times there's nothing romantic between me and Noah. She's just a friend. She has no family; we're longtime old friends. Taking care of her is just the right thing to do. Just friends." I had watched him with her these past months. I had seen the way he

looked at her, the tenderness in his eyes, soft as water—like she was the most precious thing in his life. I had heard him singing to her while I twiddled away in the kitchen and had watched them sit together reminiscing about their youth, their golden days. Maybe he didn't love this Noah, but I knew without a doubt that he had always loved the Noah from his past. And maybe in all these years of marriage, his heart had never truly belonged to me at all. But none of that mattered anymore. I studied him. Paul, 65 years old—still

sharp, still energetic—compared to me, he looked so much younger. Whenever we went out, strangers often assumed we were siblings. The irony: I was actually younger than him. I suddenly asked, "Do you know why I look older than you?" Paul didn't respond. I closed my eyes, replaying my daily routine in my mind: cooking, cleaning, running the household. You all talk like it's nothing, but food doesn't magically appear in the fridge, dishes don't clean themselves, laundry needs sorting, washed clothes need ironing, trash bags need replacing, recyclables need separating, and shoes get dirty the moment you step outside.

I opened my eyes and met his. "Paul, I don't owe you anything, and I certainly don't owe Noah anything. Your words might sound noble, but your actions are disgraceful. I want a divorce. I'm done waiting for you to change. I just want to live my own life." Paul still didn't understand, or maybe he just refused to. "Vivian, I'll help out with housework. Noah doesn't need you to take care of her anymore. Can't we just stay married?" The moment I heard "help out," I knew there was no point in continuing this conversation. To him, this was

just another way to push me back into my role—to make me agree to continue carrying the burden alone. But household chores weren't some natural born obligation of mine, and I had no interest in playing that role any longer. I only wanted to leave, to cut my losses. Paul tried to stop me. He grabbed my wrist, blocking me from getting into the taxi. "Vivian, I swear there's nothing between Noah and me. We've been married for over 30 years." I cut him off. "Then are you willing to put her in a nursing home?" His face changed; silence.

I let out a quiet laugh. "There it is! You just want me to compromise again. We've been married nearly 40 years, Paul. I gave you everything. Now do me one favor: let me go." I had said it so many times. I was tired, but Paul had never truly heard me. He had never seen me. To him, my exhaustion was an exaggeration; my sacrifices were just part of my duty. I wasn't invisible. I deserved to live for myself, and this time I would. Paul eventually agreed to the divorce and signed the agreement. When we went to

court for the hearing with our respective lawyers, his male attorney tried to talk me out of it. "Are you sure? After all these years, surely there's no problem too big to overcome." Paul turned to look at me. "Vivian—" I cut them both off. "The difficulties aren't dependent on whose feet they land under. Some may find it easy, but that's only because they're not the ones walking in the shoes. Whether life is bearable or not is something only the person living it can truly know." Neither Paul nor the attorney spoke after that. We finalized the divorce

and only waited for the Court's official documents to be mailed to us. After dividing the assets, I realized I wouldn't be able to afford another apartment in this expensive city. After discussing it with me, Paul decided that he would give me the house; he and Noah would move in with Jorge. I didn't say anything since he insisted I had nothing left to refuse. "Vivian, take your time to think this through. If you really want it, this house is yours. I owe you an apology." I couldn't be bothered to listen to his late confession of affection.

Had he said these things years ago, I might have been touched, but now I knew it was just him trying to ease his conscience. I planned to sell the house and buy a more affordable, comfortable place in a nearby town. With my own pension, I'd be able to live comfortably; I might even have enough to indulge in some new hobbies. One day, I received a strange phone call. At first, I thought it was from a real estate agent, but when I answered, it was Jorge. He sounded flustered. "Mom, why did you block me? I even

got a new number just to get through to you." I didn't respond. I put the phone on speaker and went back to looking up property prices and reviews for the town. Jorge didn't care if I spoke or not. Through the muffled sound on the other end, I heard him yelling, "You're getting divorced? At your age? Aren't you embarrassed?" "Where's my dignity in all this? Have you thought about me? You two are so old; what's all the fuss for? I picked up the phone. Do you want Lily to live the same life I did? There was

a sudden silence on the other end. I spoke calmly, not feeling any sadness anymore. I just wanted to teach him one last lesson. You've grown up and can't understand your mother, but what about Lily? Do you want her to marry and just spend her days in the kitchen, taking care of everyone's needs without any care or understanding in return?" Jorge remained silent, only his breathing on the line. I took a deep breath. "Do you want Lily to listen to your words and think that a woman's life should be all about cooking and cleaning; that after

decades of marriage she'll realize her husband never loved her and then expect her to take care of his first love?" I pictured Jorge as a child in my mind, holding an umbrella in the pouring rain, running out to meet me and take me home. I had once loved this child deeply, and I believed he had once loved me too, but time had changed so much. A bitter ache spread through my chest. "Jorge, you have a father and mother who care about you. I had parents who cared for me too, but they're gone now, and no

one's left to care for me." I heard him choke back a sob on the other end of the line. Before I hung up, I heard him call out, "Mom, I'm sorry." A month after the divorce, I received more flowers than I had in my entire life combined—one bouquet every day, all from Paul. He also sent me photos of the meals he cooked. The eggs were burnt, the cereal was drowning in milk, and the pasta was a gluey mess stuck to the plate. It seemed like he wanted to prove that he could change, that he could

improve little by little. But I wanted to tell him, "We're 65, not 25. If he had truly wanted to change, he should have done it when we were 25. All these years, he never even thought about it until I finally left. It was too late; I wasn't waiting for him anymore." I didn't respond to his messages. I was too busy living the life I had planned for myself. Under the way of house hunting, I traveled, visiting new places, experiencing different cultures, and trying all sorts of local foods. Along the way, I met many young people—college

students, working professionals. They were warm and lively, and when they saw me traveling alone, they enthusiastically taught me how to take better tourist photos, how to capture landscapes in a more artistic way. For a while, we traveled together, snapping pictures along the way. Looking at the photos, I couldn't help but sigh; they looked so beautiful. A small regret bloomed in my chest—the regret of having wasted my youth, of not realizing all of this sooner. Maybe they sensed what I was feeling because both girls hugged my arms from either side. "Time never defeats a beautiful soul,"

one of them said. "Vivian, you're still gorgeous. Every stage of life has its own kind of beauty." I smiled, brushing my fingers over the screen where I saw a version of myself I hadn't seen in a long time—beaming, carefree, truly happy. In that moment, I let go of everything. "You're right; as long as we're alive, it's never too late." I lifted my head to the sky; the blue seemed more vivid, more boundless than ever. Maybe this was it; maybe this would be my new home throughout the rest of my journey. I took countless photos and

started posting on Instagram. The girls even taught me how to shoot videos. "It's called a vlog," they explained. "You just talk about where you went, what you did, how it felt." I found it surprisingly fun; I even signed up for a class to learn video editing. The instructor hesitated. "It might be a bit challenging for you," he warned gently. I just laughed. "That's okay; I'll take my time." After a month away, I finally saw Paul again. He looked much older; his hair had grown out, his face was lined with exhaustion, and dark circles hung beneath

his eyes. When he saw me, he froze. "You've changed so much." I knew this morning I had looked at myself in the mirror. I was wearing stylish clothes, my hair freshly curled, and I had put on a light touch of makeup. All the hiking and traveling had given me a fit, healthy figure. With peaceful nights and deep sleep, my complexion glowed. Spending time with young people had made me feel young again. I was no longer that tired, hunched-over woman who had just filed for divorce—the one who walked like she was always navigating a crowded marketplace,

burdened and weary. Paul, on the other hand, still seemed to be holding on to some desperate hope of reconciliation. He lowered his gaze, his voice barely above a whisper. "If I agree to put Noah in a nursing home now, would you give me another chance?" I stared at him in surprise, then without even thinking, I laughed. "Absolutely not! Who finally gets a taste of freedom and then goes back to being a workhorse? And besides, I took care of Noah for months, and you refused to send her away! But now, after just a few weeks, you

can't handle it?" Paul had no response. Right then, my phone rang; it was my real estate agent. He told me he had a potential buyer for my house and was already waiting outside my rented apartment with him. The buyer, coincidentally, was also an older gentleman, recently divorced. Paul watched as..." I got into the car with them. I saw the way his expression twisted, the way his thoughts spiraled into the wrong conclusion. Then suddenly, he rushed forward and blocked the car. His hands shook as he glared at me. "Who is he?" I rolled my eyes. "And

what does that have to do with you?" Paul took a deep breath, his voice trembling with anger. "He just got divorced, and now he’s after you? What kind of man does that? He can't be a good person." I arched a brow, amused by his hypocrisy. I didn't even bother explaining; instead, I smirked and shot back, "Oh, then tell me, what kind of good person keeps his first love under the same roof as his wife for months before even considering divorce?" Paul suddenly stiffened. Meanwhile, my real estate agent smoothly reversed the car, maneuvering around Paul before

driving off. He chuckled, shaking his head. "Time is money; let’s focus on business." I smiled. "Exactly." The real estate agent worked efficiently. The third buyer who came to view the house decided on the spot to take it. As we signed the contract, she leaned in close and whispered, "Vivien, I'm actually a fan of yours." I blinked in surprise. "A fan?" She pulled out her phone, and to my astonishment, I saw that she was following my Instagram account. She told me she had been laid off three times and had been struggling to find a new job,

but recently she finally secured a good spot at one company. "Whenever I feel overwhelmed, I watch your videos. They always fill me with so much motivation," she said. "I want to be like you no matter what I go through. I want to have the courage to start over." I looked into her young, determined eyes, and for a moment, I saw myself from years ago—Paul and me standing in the same house when we first bought it. Back then, we had nothing but each other. We had worked hard to afford this home. We had sat together in

its bare, unfinished rooms, dreaming of our future, and now this house belonged to someone new, and I too was stepping into a new life. I moved to my new home in another city, not too far from my old one but with better scenery and a lower cost of living. Jorge wasn't thrilled when he found out, but for once, he held his tongue. Since I remained distant with him, he found an excuse to stay connected: Lily. Every spring and fall break, he would send her to stay with me. I had no love left for Paul or

Jorge, but Lily—she was my granddaughter, sweet, well-behaved, and full of life. How could I not adore her? The conflicts of adults had nothing to do with children. Whenever she visited, I took her on trips, or we signed up for classes together. This year, we were learning oil painting. One day in class, I noticed that Lily wasn't her usual cheerful self; she kept sighing. I reached out, ruffling her hair. "What's wrong? You're too young to be sighing like that." "Lily hugged me tightly. "Grandma, home is always full of fighting." From Lily, I learned that Paul had

indeed moved into Jorge's house with Noah when I was still there. Noah's Alzheimer's had only been my problem, but now it was everyone's problem. "Noah, Grandma, threw Mommy's clothes into the toilet and poured water on Daddy's phone." Lily cradled her face in her hands. "She even tore up my homework! I told my teacher, but she didn't believe me! They fight about her all the time. One time, they were yelling so much, they forgot to lock the door, and Noah ran away." I was startled. Noah might have been a burden, but she was still a sick

woman. The worst I had ever wished for was for her to be placed in a care home, not to be abandoned on the streets. "She ran away?" Lily patted my hand, reassuring me. "Don't worry, Grandma; the police found her and brought her back." I exhaled, relieved. Lily frowned. "But Grandpa got so scared he fell sick." She leaned into me. "Grandma, when Grandpa was sick, he kept calling your name." Paul was sick. Lily showed me during a video call. He looked pale, worn down, but he wasn't hospitalized. His wrist was tied to a rope, one end

wrapped around him, the other around Noah. The tenderness he once had for her was gone. When Noah tried to run, he instinctively smacked her. She had gotten worse; she didn't even recognize her Paul anymore. She cried, backing away, throwing things in a frenzy. An ashtray hit Paul square in the forehead, a thin line of blood trickling down. The video call ended in the middle of the chaos. Lily barely reacted. "This is just how it is now," she said with a shrug. "If Grandpa doesn't hold on to Noah, Grandma, she runs away. She even went to

the police and said Grandpa was abusing her." Lily leaned in closer. "Grandma, Grandpa says he knows he was wrong. Will you really never forgive him?" I kissed her forehead. "What's the point of correcting an answer after the test has already been graded?" When Lily's break ended, Jorge came to pick her up. He kept his head down as he took her backpack and suitcase from me. Neither of us spoke as I helped Lily into the car. She hopped inside, cheerful as ever. Then, just as she disappeared into her seat, Jorge suddenly started crying—loud, uncontrollable sobs. Embarrassed,

I turned my back to him, pretending I didn't know him, but he kept crying until suddenly he wrapped his arms around me, like he had when he was a child. In a small, broken voice, he whispered, "Mama." I didn't respond, and he didn't. "Call me again." Before I walked away, he pulled me into one more hug. "Mama, I miss you. Mama, I'm sorry." Sitting in my own car, I closed my eyes. The first word a child speaks is often "Mama," and in the last moments of life, many people call for Mama again. Maybe deep down,

children always love their mothers, but too many of them only realize it when it's too late. I knew why Lily had said those words; I knew who had told her to say them, but I wasn't going back. My phone buzzed. Your scheduled flight departs in 3 days. 14 days, 14 nights—I had booked a trip to France. We danced poorly but joyfully by the Seine. We haggled in vintage shops. We stood in awe of the towering grandeur of Notre Dame. By the time I returned, my Instagram following had grown by another thousand. I often chatted with

followers, but today was different. Today, I saw a familiar profile picture and a message: "Can I see you one last time?" I realized then I didn't hate him as much as I thought I did, so I went. Paul lay on the hospital bed, frail as a sheet of paper. His eyes were closed, his breathing light. He hadn't noticed me yet. Jorge sat beside him, exhausted. When he saw me, he froze. Then suddenly, he jumped up, a little too eager. "Mom!" His voice startled Paul awake. Paul blinked, his gaze hazy as he tried to focus on

me. Then he smiled and reached out his hand. "You came." I didn't say anything; I just sat down by his bed. "How did you end up like this?" Paul still seemed caught between dreams and reality, his eyes lingering on me, studying me carefully. "You're so heartless," he murmured, his voice tinged with both bitterness and longing. "You left for so long. Didn't even visit me in my dreams." He let out a small chuckle. I never had much of a poetic soul, but for some reason, a verse came to mind: "I am sick and lost in my

delirium, yet even in my dreams you do not appear." I looked at him without a word. Jorge, standing nearby, spoke softly. "Dad's been confused lately. The doctor said it's just stress and lack of sleep—nothing too serious." I waved my hand, signaling for him to leave us now. It was just me and Paul. He looked at me for a long time, then suddenly struggled to sit up. "Viven, if I hadn't said I was dying, would you still have come to see me?" I nodded no. Even now, seeing him weak and unwell, I felt no need to

soften my words. I had long since learned to be honest with myself, to see our relationship for what it truly was. "We're divorced. I came to see you once, and I think that's more than enough." He let out a weak laugh followed by a cough. "When we first divorced, I resented you, you know? I kept thinking, how hard could it have been to take care of Noah? Why couldn't you just accept her?" He smiled bitterly, shaking his head as if he were lost in thought, lost in memories. "She's really hard to take care of. Why

did I never see it before? Why did I always think everything was so simple? Why did I watch you work tirelessly every day and think it was just normal?" I listened to his quiet murmurs, but they didn't stir any emotion in me. I wasn't touched; I wasn't vindicated. It all felt distant, like listening to someone else's life story. "You did this to yourself, didn't you?" Paul had always been physically strong. No matter how exhausting caregiving was, it shouldn't have left him bedridden so soon. He opened his eyes and met my gaze. "Yes, I just wanted

to see you to tell you I'm sorry." His eyes reddened. "I'm sorry for all the pain I put you through." I poured myself a glass of water and took a sip before asking, "And Noah?" He had spent all this time talking about how hard it had been for him, about his regrets—but what about her? He froze. "Noah? I sent her to a nursing home." A laugh escaped me before I could stop it. "See? You haven't changed at all. You never take real responsibility. You let me down before, and now you've abandoned her too. The only

person you've ever truly loved is yourself." I set down my glass, pouring the untouched water down the sink. I had no reason to stay any longer. "Paul, take care of yourself." Then I walked away. I never went to see Paul again, and of course, he didn't die from that illness. When Lily came to stay with me over her next school break, she told me that Paul had rented a small apartment and brought Noah back to live with him. "But Grandma, doesn't remember Grandpa anymore." His first love, his shining moonlight, faded under the weight of her

illness. Noah didn't remember him, didn't remember their past, didn't remember the love that had once consumed him. Now she only remembered her mother, but she could no longer go looking for her. Alzheimer's had reached its final stages; she could no longer walk properly and had lost her ability to speak. Lily said she had visited Paul once. "The house was quiet," she told me, "and messy. Grandpa looked so thin. He didn't talk; he just sat by the window, staring outside. Sometimes he coughs really hard. Dad tells him to go to the hospital, but he refuses." Lily

had grown older, another year wiser. She understood more now, but something still didn't make sense to her. She tilted her head up at me. "Grandma, why does Grandpa say he's so sad to be alive?" I brushed her hair gently. "Because he..." Wanted everything, but in the end, he got nothing. That's why he's in pain. Lily, don't be too greedy in life. Lily nodded thoughtfully. After she left, I tidied up her room. Under her pillow, I found a bank card and a note: "Mom, the password is your birthday." I held the card for a long time,

and then finally, I put it away. Let the past stay in the past. At 70, I joined a travel group and went to Hawaii, and later, Fuji. At 71, I met a boyfriend 10 years younger than me in Italy. We had a wonderful year together before parting ways. At 72, I rode in a helicopter for the first time. It was exhilarating, though no matter how much I tried to convince my instructor, he refused to let me fly it myself. At 73, Paul passed away. Not long after, Noah followed. When I heard that Paul had passed

away, I didn't feel much at first. It was a quiet realization, a simple fact absorbed like reading the news of a distant acquaintance. Jorge called to tell me; his voice was subdued, careful as if bracing for my reaction. But there was none—not the shock or sorrow he might have expected, just silence. "He asked for you," at the end, Jorge said after a long pause. "I thought you should know." I nodded, even though he couldn't see me. I thanked him, then ended the call. I went about my day as usual; brewed my coffee, tended to my

small garden, answered messages from my travel group. Yet that night, as I lay in bed staring at the ceiling, something settled heavily in my chest. Paul was gone—the man I had spent over 30 years with, the man who had taken me for granted, the man who had, in his own twisted way perhaps, loved me, the man who had hurt me, and yet the man I had once chosen to build a life with. I slept fitfully, and when I woke up, I knew what I needed to do. Paul's grave was simple, a modest stone, his name

carved in smooth lettering, the years of his life marking a beginning and an end. There was no elaborate epitaph, no poetry—just a name, a date, and the weight of a life lived. I stood before it, hands tucked into the pockets of my coat, the autumn wind brushing against my skin. There were fresh flowers on the grave; Jorge, doing, I imagined. I had brought nothing. I hadn't even thought to. I looked down at the name I once shared a home with, and I exhaled. "I thought I had nothing left to say to you," I murmured, "but

I suppose that was never true." I lowered myself to sit on the bench nearby. The cemetery was quiet, peaceful in a way that only places of final rest could be. "You always wanted everything," I said, watching the leaves scatter across the ground, "and in the end, you lost it all." I wasn't angry anymore; I wasn't resentful. I wasn't anything, really—just reflective. "I don't hate you, Paul." The words felt strange on my tongue, but I knew they were true. Maybe I did once. Maybe I had every right to. But standing here now, I just feel free,

and that was the truth of it. Paul had been a chapter in my life—one filled with sacrifice and hurt, yes, but also moments of warmth, of laughter, of shared experiences that had shaped me. And now that chapter had ended. I wasn't the woman who had begged for his love. I wasn't the woman who had waited for him to change. I wasn't the woman who had lost herself in the service of others. I was someone else now, and I was finally truly living for myself. I stood, brushing off the creases from my coat. "Goodbye, Paul." I

walked away without looking back. Two months later, I bought a camper van. It was something I had thought about for a while, an idea sparked by a passing comment in my travel group, nurtured by the realization that I was happiest when I was on the move—a home on wheels, freedom at my fingertips, the ability to wake up in a new place whenever I pleased. I spent weeks customizing it, making it my own—a cozy bed, a kitchenette where I could make my morning coffee, a little bookshelf filled with novels and travel guides. I strung up fairy

lights inside, making it warm and inviting—a space that was entirely mine. When the final touches were done, I stood back and admired my new home. It wasn't a house with a foundation; it wasn't the apartment where I had once packed my bags to leave my old life behind. It was something different, something better. It was possibility. I packed my bags with excitement rather than obligation. I planned my first route with the thrill of an adventurer rather than the burden of an escapee. I was no longer running from something; I was heading toward something—toward new landscapes,

new experiences, new people. I shared a photo of my camper on Instagram, a caption underneath it that read, "Life doesn't start at 20; it starts whenever you choose." That evening, I brewed tea on my tiny stove, sat beneath a sky full of stars, and let the world stretch endlessly before me. I didn't know where I'd be next month, next year, but for the first time in a long, long time, I wasn't afraid of the unknown. I was ready for it.