3. I Don't Care If You Die

I waited until midnight.

Nathan always worked late in his study. It was the only room in the house he actually cared about. The only place he seemed comfortable. The only place I was not allowed without knocking.

I stood outside the door for a long time. I could hear him typing. I could hear the ice in his glass. Whiskey. He always drank whiskey when he worked late. He said it helped him think. I think it just helped him ignore me.

I knocked.

"What?"

I opened the door. He did not look up. He was at his desk, tie loosened, sleeves rolled. His phone was face down beside his laptop. That meant he had been talking to someone he did not want me to see.

"Nathan, I need to talk to you."

"Can it wait?"

"No."

He stopped typing. He looked up. That was rare. He actually looked at me. For a second, I thought maybe this was it. Maybe this was the moment he would finally see me.

"What is it?"

I walked into the room. I closed the door behind me. I had the diagnosis paper in my pocket. I had been carrying it for two days. I could feel the edges of it through the fabric. It was soft now from being folded and unfolded and folded again.

"Nathan, something happened. Something serious."

He leaned back in his chair. He picked up his glass. He took a drink. "Is this about the surrogate contract? Because my mother wants it signed by Friday. She has already spoken to the lawyer."

"No. It is not about the surrogate contract."

"Then what?"

I took a breath. I could feel my heart in my throat. I could feel my hands shaking. I had rehearsed this a hundred times. I had practiced saying it calmly. Without tears. Without drama. Just the facts.

"I went to the doctor last week."

"I know. You told me."

"They ran some tests."

He set the glass down. He looked at me with something that was almost interest. Almost concern. "What kind of tests?"

"Blood tests. Scans. Everything."

"And?"

I opened my mouth. The words were right there. Six months. I am dying. I need you. I need someone. Please. Just listen. Just this once.

"Nathan, I have six months to live."

The room went silent.

He looked at me. I looked at him. For a moment, I saw something flicker across his face. Something that looked almost human. Something that looked almost like the man I married.

Then it was gone.

"You have six months to live," he repeated. Flat. Like he was reading it off a page.

"Yes."

He picked up his glass again. He took another drink. He set it down. He looked at his laptop screen.

"And what do you want me to do about it?"

The words hit me like a physical blow. I actually stepped back. I actually put my hand on the doorframe to steady myself.

"What do you mean, what do I want you to do about it?"

"I mean, what am I supposed to do? You are dying. That is terrible. But I cannot fix it. I am not a doctor. I have a company to run. I have a mother who is already planning the surrogate contract. I have Chloe to think about. What exactly do you want from me?"

"I want you to care."

He laughed. He actually laughed. It was not a cruel laugh. It was worse. It was tired. It was dismissive. It was the laugh of a man who had already decided I was not worth the effort.

"I care, Zara. But I cannot stop living because you are sick."

"I am not sick. I am dying."

"Same thing."

"No. It is not the same thing. I am going to die. Do you understand that? I am going to die. I have six months. Maybe less. And I am spending my last days in this house, in this marriage, being treated like a piece of furniture. And I just wanted you to know. I just wanted someone to know."

He stood up. He walked around the desk. He stood in front of me. He looked down at me. He was taller than me. He had always been taller than me.

"Zara, listen to me. I do not have time for this. My mother wants the surrogate contract signed by Friday. I need you to be there. I need you to smile. I need you to act like a wife. I cannot do this alone."

"You cannot do this alone?"

"No. I cannot."

"Nathan, I am dying. Do you not hear me? I am dying."

He snapped.

"I do not care if you are sick or dying, Zara. Handle it yourself."

The words hung in the air between us. I stared at him. He stared at me. Neither of us moved. Neither of us spoke. The clock on his desk ticked. The ice in his glass melted.

Then Chloe appeared in the doorway.

She was standing there in her pajamas, holding her phone. She must have heard us. She must have been listening.

"Chloe," I said. "Go back to bed."

She did not move. She looked at me. She looked at Nathan. She looked back at me.

"I heard what you said."

"Chloe, please."

"I do not want you either."

The words hit me harder than anything Nathan had said. I felt them in my chest. I felt them in my stomach. I felt them in my bones.

"What?"

"I do not want you. I want Ariel."

"Chloe, you do not mean that."

"I do mean it." She stepped into the room. She was fourteen years old and she was looking at me like I was a stranger. "Ariel is nice. Ariel is pretty. Ariel does not cry all the time. Ariel does not act like a servant. You are always sad. You are always tired. You are always nothing."

I felt my knees go weak. I felt my throat close.

"Chloe."

"I wish Ariel was my real mother."

She said it without flinching. Without hesitation. Without any sign that the words were hurting her as much as they were hurting me. She said it like she was telling me the weather.

Then she turned and walked out.

I stood in the doorway. I stood in the hallway. I held the diagnosis paper in my hand. I had taken it out of my pocket at some point. I did not remember doing it. I looked down at the words. Terminal. Six months. Palliative care recommended.

I looked up. Nathan was back at his desk. He was typing. Like nothing had happened. Like I had not just told him I was dying. Like our daughter had not just told me she wished I was dead.

I walked down the hallway. I walked past Chloe's room. Her light was on. I could hear her laughing at something on her phone. Probably talking to Ariel. Probably telling her what she had said to me. Probably being praised for it.

I walked into my bedroom. Our bedroom. The room I had shared with Nathan for eight years. The room where I had cried myself to sleep more nights than I could count. The room where I had once believed I would grow old.

I closed the door. I locked it. For the first time in eight years, I locked the door.

Then I sat down on the bed and I opened my laptop. I opened a file I had started three days ago. A file called Exit. It was separate from the folder. The folder held screenshots and photographs. The file held my notes. My plans. My words. It was empty because I had not known what to write. I had not known what I was planning. I had not known what I was doing.

Now I knew.

I started typing. Names. Dates. Account numbers. I typed everything I knew about Nathan's finances. Everything I knew about his mother's money. Everything I knew about the house, the cars, the company. I typed the name of the doctor who had given me my diagnosis. I typed the date of the surrogacy contract. I typed Chloe's words. I wish Ariel was my real mother. I typed them exactly. I did not want to forget.

Then I closed the laptop. I put the diagnosis paper back in my pocket. I lay down on the bed.

I did not sleep that night.

I lay there in the dark and I listened to the house. I listened to Nathan typing in his study. I listened to Chloe laughing in her room. I listened to the clock ticking in the hallway.

And I made a decision.

I was not going to die in this house. I was not going to spend my last six months being invisible. I was not going to let them win.

I was going to leave.

But not yet. Not tonight. Tonight, I needed to sleep. Tomorrow, I would start planning. Tomorrow, I would start gathering everything I needed. Tomorrow, I would become someone else.

Someone who did not need anyone.

Someone who would never be invisible again.

I closed my eyes. I did not cry. I had no tears left for this house. I had no tears left for Nathan. I had no tears left for Chloe.

I had only one thing left.

Determination.