The Final Goodbye

Amara Akwarandu sat on the hard hospital bench, her back bent, her fingers squeezing the paper in her hand like life itself depended on it.

Her eyes kept running over the words written there – BRAIN CANCER (PILOCYTIC ASTROCYTOMA).

The meaning refused to soften.

The line stared back at her, bold, merciless. And under it, the note that broke her soul: few weeks to live.

Her throat tightened as if someone was pressing it shut. She tried to breathe but air felt like hot stones in her chest.

The paper shook in her hands. It was not only the sickness eating her away, it was the finality of those words.

Her vision blurred. Before she knew it, hot tears had rolled down her cheeks.

She reached for her phone with weak fingers, the device heavy as if it knew the burden she was about to drop. She scrolled quickly, pressed Alex Spencer’s number. He was her husband, her one person in the world or so everybody thought.

The call connected.

“Alex,” her voice cracked, low, shaking, “I just came from the doctor… they said—”

He cut her off before she could finish. “Amara, please, if it’s one of those small sicknesses again, just buy medicine. I’m busy.”

And just like that, he ended the call.

The phone slipped in her hand, dangling as though it might fall to the floor. She stared at the screen, her tears running freely now. She whispered to the empty corridor, broken and trembling, “Alex… I’m dying.”

Everybody outside envied her. They said she was lucky to have married the perfect man—the brilliant doctor, the shining star.

But envy was easy when they didn’t know the truth.

It is easy to admire and praise a broken car because the body appears shiny and unarguably attractive. But not when you’re able to take the key yourself, turn on the ignition and drive it.

Only then can your perception about that car change for the truth.

For four years she had lived with Alex, but she had walked through everything alone. He never cared what storm she was facing. When she fell sick, she went to the hospital alone.

When problems rose in the house, she handled them herself. And now, even as death announced its arrival, she had no hand to hold, no voice to comfort her.

Amara pressed the paper to her chest. The weight of the world sat on her shoulders, and she felt smaller than she had ever felt.

“Madam! Madam, please, come quickly!”

The sharp, urgent voice of a nurse cut into her sorrow. She looked up, startled. A young nurse in uniform was hurrying towards her, her eyes full of insistence.

“Please, follow me,” the nurse said, holding her arm. “Dr. Spencer is around today. He’s the best neurosurgeon we have. He might be able to help your case.”

Amara froze where she sat. Her heart dropped. She knew who the nurse was talking about. She tried to shake her head, but her body was too weak.

“Come, don’t waste time,” the nurse urged, already lifting her gently to her feet. “Don’t lose this chance.”

Amara’s legs dragged as they moved down the corridor. Each step felt like punishment. Her chest was heavy with something the nurse could not understand.

When they reached the consultation wing, the sight before her made her stop. A long line of patients waited patiently, hope written on every face. The air carried tension and desperation. People shifted on their seats, clutching files and test papers like treasures.

The nurse pushed open the door and led her in.

Inside, Alex Spencer sat behind his desk – her so-called perfect husband. He was finishing with a patient, his voice calm, soft, and professional.

He smiled faintly, offered reassurance, and the patient left with a bow of gratitude.

Then Alex looked up and his eyes landed on Amara.

For a moment, something flashed across his face: surprise, almost alarm. But within seconds, his expression hardened, wiped clean of anything human.

“Amara,” his voice was flat, cold. “What are you doing here?”

He didn’t wait for her answer. He turned away, walked back to his chair, and picked up a file as though she was a mistake that had entered his office.

Amara’s lips trembled, but no words came. Her heart was breaking silently in her chest.

Before she could even gather herself, Alex spoke again, sharper this time, not sparing her a glance.

“I told you, stop bringing your little issues to me. I am busy.”

His words pierced her. Her knees weakened. She clutched the test result harder, trying to steady herself.

The nurse, unaware of the storm, quickly collected the paper from Amara and placed it on the desk. “Doctor Spencer, this patient’s condition is very serious. Please, look at her result immediately. She needs urgent review.”

Alex didn’t even lift his head. “Every patient here is serious. If all of them demanded I abandon procedure, how would I work?”

The nurse blinked, taken aback. “But Doctor—”

Alex snapped. His voice rose, hard and final. “Enough! Get out, both of you.”

He turned his eyes on Amara at last, but they were colder than ice. “If you want consultation, join the queue like every other patient. And if this is personal, then wait until I get home.”

The room fell silent.

The nurse looked at him in shock, her mouth opening and closing.

Amara’s tears spilled freely now. She reached out, picked the paper with trembling fingers, and turned.

Her steps were heavy as she walked out. Outside, the bright corridor lights stabbed her eyes. She leaned against the wall, her whole body shaking.

Her breath came out in whispers, broken and painful. “If I need an appointment to see my own husband… then what is the use of this marriage?”

Her fingers pressed against the wall for balance. Her heart pounded, not just from the sickness, but from the emptiness swallowing her whole.