This Time, I Choose Divorce

At the end of 2044, in my fifties and dying of late-stage breast cancer, I was counting down the final days of my life. The hospital room door opened, and footsteps entered. The doctor lowered his voice. "She doesn't have much time left." My daughter kept her voice low too. "Mom's finally dying. When are you going to marry Clara?" Julian Hale went silent for two seconds. "At the very least, I have to wait until after her funeral." Lila sighed. "Mom suffered her whole life. She should've divorced you years ago. Clara's the one who had it hard, staying with you for over twenty years without ever having a proper place by your side. You need to make it up to her, Dad." Julian let out a quiet sigh. "Your mother really ruined herself and everyone around her." Ruined herself and everyone around her. I closed my eyes, and tears slid into the pillow. Thirty years of marriage, and in the end, those were the words I got. Then a blinding light slashed across my vision, so bright it hurt. I opened my eyes in a daze. "Serena, what is it? Still not awake?" My mother walked over and patted my arm. "Were you up all night reading those romance novels again? How many times have I told you to take care of yourself? I'm still hoping you'll have another baby while you're young, so Lila can have a sibling." The harsh light was gone. My mother was standing right in front of me. I grabbed her hand. It was warm. I threw my arms around her and held on tight. "Mom... is it really you? How are you here?" My mother reached over and touched my forehead. "Serena, did you sleep yourself silly? You said you were bored, so you had the driver pick me up so I could stay with you for a few days." Her words blew open a window in my memory. It was 2014. I was twenty-six. Lila was six. Julian was thirty. 'Could it be...?' Breathing hard, I looked around. This was the villa Julian had bought after we got married. I stepped out onto the balcony. Sunlight poured over me, warm and real. 'Had I really been reborn?' Not far away, a few young people were playing tennis on the neighborhood court, full of life and energy. I smiled. All those prayers I'd whispered to God every day had actually come true. In my past life, I still didn't know at this point that the husband I loved had already been cheating on me with his right-hand woman, Clara Mercer, for more than a year. And my daughter, the one I had poured my heart and soul into raising, had been covering for them all along. Whenever the daughter I'd doted on threw a tantrum, I would patiently coax her, only to be the one who gave in at the end. I controlled her diet strictly for the sake of her health, yet she could give me the silent treatment for three days over a single bite of ice cream. Piano on Mondays, ballet on Tuesdays, violin on Wednesdays, horseback riding on Thursdays, and on Fridays, a full day of SAT prep and Model UN training. I drove her to every lesson, stayed with her the entire time, and never once dared miss a session. Then at thirteen, her rebellion hit without warning and tore everything apart. She threatened to starve herself. She threatened to hurt herself. I watched her around the clock, and during that stretch, I felt as if I had aged ten years. Her grades were terrible in high school. Russell Group universities were out of the question. I sent her to a boarding school in Switzerland and stayed there with her for two months, only to be sent back to the States after she accused me of "invading her privacy." Meanwhile, Clara took her on shopping sprees, buying her the dresses and toys she liked. She took her everywhere too—skiing in Zermatt, diving in the Maldives, and dancing at Tomorrowland. She let Lila live with the whole sky open before her, free to grow however she pleased, free to be happy. By the time Lila was in college, Clara had hired her a private chef with a three-Michelin-star background. There was no need for my lovingly prepared meals anymore. Little by little, Lila gave Clara all her affection. When Clara had minor surgery, Lila rushed to the hospital to stay by her bedside. But when I was dying, she was still feeling sorry for Clara, as if Clara were the one who'd been wronged. As for my husband, he had kept me because I was pretty. I made a decent ornament. Safe to leave at home, presentable to bring out in public. And because I didn't cause trouble, took care of the house, and gave him a child, he had "mercifully" decided not to throw me away. Clara, on the other hand, was his right-hand woman, his confidante, the person he trusted most. She was the partner who fought beside him in the business world, charging through battle after battle at his side. He couldn't do without her. Now that I had lived this life twice, I finally understood one thing. Pure devotion meant nothing. Respect came from power and resources. Fairness would never fall from the sky on its own. If you wanted to stand against this world, you needed weapons of your own—and the strength to use them.