This Time, I Choose Divorce

At the end of 2044, I was in my fifties, diagnosed with late-stage breast cancer. My life had entered its final countdown. The doctor gave the final verdict. "The patient does not have much time left." Outside the hospital room, my husband, Julian Hale, and my daughter, Lila Hale, were talking. Every word cut into me like a needle. Lila lowered her voice, her childish tone carrying a kind of cruel innocence. "Mom is finally going to be gone. When are you going to have a wedding with Clara?" Julian was silent for two seconds. When he spoke, there was a hint of relief in his voice. "At least wait until her funeral is handled." Lila agreed. "Mom spent her whole life making everyone suffer. She should have just divorced you sooner. Clara has had it so hard, staying by your side for more than 20 years without a proper title. Dad, you have to make it up to her from now on." At the end of their conversation, Julian delivered his final judgment. "Your mother hurt herself and dragged everyone else down with her. She should have died a long time ago." She hurt herself and dragged everyone else down. I closed my eyes, and tears slipped into my pillow. Thirty years of marriage. Thirty years of giving. I took care of the family, raised our daughter, supported my husband's career, and poured everything I had into this home. In the end, all I got in return were those words. Footsteps sounded outside the hospital room. I thought I smelled a sweet, cloying cherry blossom scent. It was exactly like Clara Mercer's perfume. So even when I died, the scent around me did not belong to me. If there was a next life, I would live for myself. Just as I thought my consciousness was about to sink into eternal darkness, a burning white light exploded before me. The monotonous beeping of the machines disappeared. In its place came familiar, reassuring noise. Then I suddenly felt something real on my arm. Someone gently patted me twice. "Serena, what is it? Still not awake?" A face appeared in front of me. It was my mother. She looked young and healthy, her hair dark, with only faint lines at the corners of her eyes. I grabbed her fingers. Warm. Strong. I held on tightly, like a drowning person clinging to driftwood. I hugged her hard. "Mom, is it really you? Why are you here?" My mother reached out and touched my forehead. "Serena, did you sleep yourself silly? You said you had been too tired lately and wanted to relax, so you specifically had the driver bring me here to stay with you for a few days." Before the warmth of my mother's body could fully bring me back to my senses, a childish voice full of anger suddenly shattered the tenderness. "You're a bad mom. You didn't come pick me up today." The muffled thud of a backpack hitting the carpet made my whole body tremble. My 6-year-old daughter, Lila, stood in the entryway, her small hands planted on her hips, her cheeks puffed up in anger. My mother instinctively hurried toward the entryway, ready to coax her like always. "Lila, you can't talk to your mother like that. Your mother hasn't been feeling well these past two days..." "Mom, don't bother." I cut off what my mother was about to say. Then I turned and gently patted her arm in reassurance. The warmth under my palm made my heart tremble. I took a deep breath and forced down the bitterness surging in my chest. Supporting myself on legs that still felt weak, I walked up to my daughter and slowly crouched down. My mother stood to the side, rubbing her hands awkwardly as she tried to smooth things over. "Serena, she is still just a child..." I looked Lila straight in the eyes. Unlike in my previous life, I did not rush to explain or apologize. My voice was soft, but calm. "I am your mother, not your full-time nanny." The living room fell into a brief, dead silence. My mother took Lila toward the kitchen. I stood up. My knees were still shaking, but I did not hold onto the wall. I breathed hard and greedily looked around the room. Had I really been reborn? It was 2014. I was 26. My husband, Julian, was 30. Clara was still his assistant, and the two of them had already been having an affair for more than a year. My daughter, Lila, was 6 and already busy covering for them. Clara had even had a minor surgery, and both my husband and my daughter had rushed over to take care of her, as if they were the real happy family of three. Living this life again, I looked at my mother's busy figure in the kitchen, and my heart clenched hard. I finally understood. In this family, pure sacrifice meant nothing. Only power earned respect. After making up my mind, I had two things to do. First, I would hire two reliable nannies for the house. In my last life, Julian spent $300 million buying Clara a mansion, while I worked myself into a haggard mess just to save a little money on household help. Since this family had money, why should I keep making myself suffer? Second, I would hire a private investigator to secretly photograph evidence of Julian and Clara's affair. He cheated first. He was the one who wronged me. I would make sure I got every cent of marital property I deserved. I wanted a divorce. I wanted money. The more, the better. ***** At two in the morning, Julian came home. I heard the bedroom door open. He stood in the darkness for a few seconds. His breathing was heavy, carrying the smell of alcohol and exhaustion. He walked to the bed, moving lightly, as if afraid of disturbing something. He took off his shirt and casually tossed it onto the nightstand on my side of the bed. A sweet, cloying cherry blossom scent drifted over. It was Clara's favorite fragrance. I opened my eyes. I did not get angry. My voice was calm, even a little cold. "Julian, there is a woman's perfume on your shirt. Same as last time."