Chapter 1: Six Months Left to Live

“I have half a year left to live.”

I stared at my doctor, waiting for him to tell me there had been a mistake.

He didn’t.

“Six months?” My fingers tightened around my bag. “There has to be something you can do.”

“We’ll discuss your options, Clara,” he said gently. “But I need you to understand how serious this is.”

I nodded, though I barely heard him after that.

Six months.

The first person I wanted to call was my husband.

“Adrian, I need to tell you something important.”

“I’m busy, Clara. Isabella has a prenatal appointment, and I promised to take her.”

I closed my eyes. “I’m at the hospital. The doctor found something, and I really need”

“I’ll call you later, okay?”

The line went dead.

I kept the phone against my ear for a moment before lowering it. Maybe he’d call back. He always said he would.

And I always believed him.

After eight years of marriage, I should have known better.

When I arrived home, I heard Sophie laughing in the living room. I followed the sound and stopped at the doorway.

My seven year old daughter was showing Isabella Laurent a drawing. Adrian stood beside them, smiling.

I couldn't remember the last time he’d looked that happy around me.

“Look, Aunt Isabella! I drew our family!”

I glanced at the picture.

Sophie held Adrian’s hand. Isabella stood on his other side, with a little baby inside a heart above her head.

I wasn’t in it.

“That’s beautiful, sweetheart,” Isabella said.

“Can you come over tomorrow, too?” Sophie asked. “I want to show you my new toys.”

“Of course, darling.”

Sophie hugged her.

I turned away before anyone noticed me watching. My throat felt tight, and I hated myself for letting a child’s drawing hurt me this much.

In the kitchen, my old canvas tote sat beside a stack of secondhand children’s books. My tiny online bookstore barely earned enough to cover its expenses, but I loved running it. I also wrote children’s stories in a brown notebook with a gold pen.

In my stories, lonely little girls always found someone who chose them.

I wished real life worked that way.

At dinner, Adrian’s mother, Margaret, looked me over with her usual disapproval.

“Clara, how long do you intend to keep disappointing this family?”

I put down my fork. “What have I done now?”

“Eight years of marriage, and still no son. Sophie is lovely, but Adrian needs an heir.”

I glanced at my husband, waiting for him to defend me.

He kept eating.

Margaret turned to Isabella. “That’s why we discussed a surrogate. Someone who could give Adrian the son Clara cannot.”

My stomach tightened. We’d discussed it before Isabella announced her pregnancy, but Margaret spoke as if my place in the family had already been decided.

“Besides, the Laurent family has connections with the Montecillo Group,” she added. “Their publishing empire is powerful. This relationship could benefit us.”

Isabella lowered her eyes, one hand resting on her stomach.

“I only want to help Adrian,” she said. “I never wanted to hurt Clara.”

Sophie leaned against her. “I hope the baby is a boy! Then Daddy will be even happier.”

Everyone seemed pleased with that thought.

Everyone except me.

They believed Isabella was carrying Adrian’s child. I had reason to doubt it.

A few days earlier, I’d overheard her talking to her best friend.

“Adrian still thinks the baby is his,” she’d whispered. “My ex abandoned me when I needed him, and I can’t let anyone discover the truth.”

I’d stood outside the room, frozen.

I could tell Adrian, but who would believe me? Margaret would call me jealous, Isabella would deny everything, and my husband would probably defend the woman he’d never truly stopped loving.

So I kept quiet.

That night, I found Adrian in our bedroom, loosening his tie.

“Can we talk?”

He barely looked at me. “About what?”

“I went to the hospital today.”

His expression changed slightly. “Are you sick?”

“The doctor found something.” I rubbed my damp palms against my skirt. “Adrian, please listen to me.”

His phone rang.

Isabella’s name appeared on the screen.

He answered immediately. “Isabella? What happened?”

I watched his face fill with concern.

“Don’t worry. I’ll come over.”

He grabbed his jacket.

“Adrian, please. Just five minutes.”

“Not now, Clara. Isabella isn’t feeling well, and she shouldn’t be alone.”

I stared at him. “What about me?”

He paused by the door, looking genuinely confused.

“You’re fine. We’ll talk later.”

Then he left.

I stood there, unable to move. My medical report was still inside my bag. I’d wanted to tell him everything, but he hadn’t even given me a chance.

Six months to live.

And I couldn’t get my own husband to spare me five minutes.

I sat on the edge of the bed and opened my brown notebook. My gold pen hovered over the page until I finally wrote:

Perhaps some people spend their whole lives waiting for a love that was never meant to come.

For eight years, I’d believed that if I loved Adrian enough, he would eventually choose me.

I’d waited through his broken promises, swallowed my hurt, and told myself things would get better.

But sitting alone in our bedroom, I couldn’t keep making excuses for him.

The most painful part wasn’t that Adrian had chosen Isabella.

It was that, in eight years of marriage, he had never really chosen me at all.