Better to Part Like Strangers

Two years after my husband vanished, presumed dead, I sold everything for his mother's medical bills. It wasn't enough. On the day of her funeral, he returned. Seeing the sales contracts and her urn, he didn't look at me with love, but with pure hatred. I gave you my world, Sarah. The moment I was gone, you sold everything and let my mother die alone.

He never let me explain. The man I knew died that day, replaced by a cold playboy. He spent lavishly on other women but wouldn't spare a dollar for the medicine I needed. When I was diagnosed, I bought myself a simple urn with my last money. He laughed and gave it to his new girlfriend for her dog's water bowl. Seeing that, I didn't break. I smiled. He looked confused. "Tired of playing the victim? Trying a new tactic?" he sneered.

A ripple of laughter went through the room from his latest conquest. I just shook my head, my smile never wavering.

"No," I said, my voice calm and clear. "I'm just grateful. You've finally allowed my heart to die completely. Now I can leave with no attachments."

Hearing that, Declans gaze turned to ice.

"Leave?" He scoffed. "Sarah, you're an orphan. You have no one. You've only survived this long because of me. Without me, without the Blackwood name, where could you possibly go?"

I listened to his contemptuous words and felt nothing. I offered no defense. I simply turned and walked toward the small, forgotten room he'd relegated me to, the one he used for storage.

As I reached the door, a searing pain ripped through my lungs. I stumbled, gripping the doorframe, biting my lip so hard I tasted blood to keep from coughing.

Behind me, his girlfriends voice dripped with saccharine poison. "Declan, darling, look at her. Shes such a mess, it's depressing. Let's just go upstairs and watch a movie."

Declan let out an impatient sigh. "Fine. Let's go. Don't let her ruin the evening."

Their footsteps faded as they headed upstairs. I shuffled into the small room, each step an agony. I collapsed onto the old, lumpy mattress, curling into a ball as pain radiated through me. It felt like my bones were being pulled apart and crudely snapped back together. Every movement was a fresh wave of torture.

There was no point in asking him for help again. I'd tried, just last week. The pain had been unbearable, and I had dragged myself into the living room where he was lounging on the sofa, feeding slices of mango to his flavor of the week.

"Declan," Id hesitated, my voice barely a whisper. "I'm in so much pain. Could you could you spare some money for painkillers?"

Hed glanced up, a mocking smirk on his face. "Faking an illness for attention again? Sarah, you've played this card a thousand times. Can't you come up with something new?"

The girl beside him giggled, covering her mouth. "Declan, I think she's just jealous seeing us so happy. She's trying to make you feel sorry for her."

Declan pulled out his wallet, peeled off a thick wad of cash, and threw it on the floor.

"You want money? There it is. Kneel and pick it up. Every bill you grab is yours."

I didn't kneel. I just swallowed the pain and the humiliation, turned around, and walked back to my storage room.

From that day on, I never asked him for another cent.

As night deepened, the pain intensified until I couldn't bear it. I fumbled under the mattress for my savings.

Seventy-three dollars and fifty cents.

It was all I had left, scraped together from the meager food budget I allowed myself. I hadn't eaten a proper meal in days. Swallowing solid food was like swallowing glass, so Id been living on thin broth, just enough to keep me alive.

Seventy-three dollars and fifty cents. Not even enough for a single dose of the good painkillers.

Just then, I heard footsteps outside my door, followed by the sound of laughter. I quickly shoved the small bundle of cash back under the bed and curled up in the corner, feigning sleep.

It was Tiffany's cloying voice. "Declan, is that sick little thing still here? Isn't she just taking up space?"

Declan's voice was laced with annoyance. "Let her stay. It's not like she can do anything."

Tiffany whined, "But I don't like her. Having her around just gives me the creeps."

Declan chuckled, his tone shifting to one of indulgence. "Shh, baby. Just ignore her. Let's go upstairs."

But she wasn't done. "No, I mean it! I'm bringing my dog over tomorrow, and I don't want her scaring him."

Declan sighed, a sound of weary surrender. "Alright, alright, whatever you want. Bring the dog tomorrow. He can have the whole yard to himself."

Their voices and footsteps receded down the hall until there was only silence.

I knew he didn't really not care. He kept me here for a reason. He wanted to watch me suffer, to see me waste away in this dark corner like a stray dog. He wanted to see me broken and full of regret.

He was convinced I couldn't live without him, that I was clinging to the Blackwood family for money and status. He believed my entire life, my every action, was just a performance.

By the time the pain subsided to a dull ache, the sky was already turning a pale grey.

I pulled an old tin box from beneath my bed, a secret I had guarded for a long time.

Inside were the small trinkets Declan had given me before he disappeared.

The stubs from our first movie date. We sat in the back row, and he'd secretly taken my hand in the dark. He had leaned in, his breath warm against my ear as he whispered, "Sarah, I promise I'm going to give you the best life. I'll give you everything."

A faded photograph of the ugliest cake imaginable. He had tried to bake it for my birthday himself. The frosting was lumpy, the fruit was sliding off one side. "It's one-of-a-kind, Sarah. Just for you." He hadn't had money for a fancy cake back then, so he'd spent the entire afternoon destroying the kitchen to make me one.

I stared at these relics, a familiar warmth spreading behind my eyes, but there was no hope left in my heart. For a year, during his absence, these things had been my lifeline. Id look at them every single day, praying he was still alive somewhere, imagining how he would hold me and soothe my pain when he finally came home.

But when he came home, all he saw were sales contracts and an urn. He didn't want an explanation. He only believed the story he saw with his own eyes. He had decided I was a gold-digger who had stolen everything and left his mother to die.

Suddenly, the door was kicked open with a deafening crash. I jumped, and the photograph slipped from my fingers, fluttering to the floor.

Declan stood in the doorway, his face a thunderous mask. He reeked of whiskey, and his eyes held a vicious glint I'd never seen before. His gaze fell to the open box in my hands, then to the scattered tickets and the photo on the floor. The coldness in his eyes deepened into a glacial frost.

He strode into the room, snatched the tin box from my grasp, and slammed it onto the ground.

Its contents scattered across the dirty floor. The ticket stubs were crumpled, and he brought his heel down on the photograph, grinding it into the floorboards.

A sharp sting went through my chest as I watched my memories being destroyed. But my face remained a blank canvas. I just looked at him.

He sneered, his voice dripping with contempt. "What's this? Taking a trip down memory lane with this junk? Trying to make me feel sorry for you?"

Looking at his twisted, hateful face, I felt a strange sense of release. All the sweet memories that had been carved into my soul, the hope that had carried me through countless nights of despairit was all a joke.

I shook my head slowly.

"None of this matters anymore. I just want you to leave me in peace for my final days."

Declan looked at me as if I'd told the world's most absurd joke and let out a harsh, barking laugh.

"Your final days? You really commit to the act, don't you? What's the endgame here, a big fat severance check?"

He looked down at me, his lip curled. "Name your price. How much will it take for you to get out of my house and out of my life? I'll give you enough to live comfortably for the rest of your miserable years."

I didn't answer him. I just slowly knelt and began to gather the scattered pieces of my past.

The movie stubs were torn. The photograph was cracked.

I picked up the fragments, one by one, and placed them back into the dented tin box.

The pain in my lungs flared again, sharper this time. I clenched my jaw, refusing to let him see me cough.

Declan watched me, his frown deepening. "What game are you playing now, Sarah? Do you think this pathetic display will make me pity you?"

"You know exactly what you did!" he roared. "It was always about the money, wasn't it? Is money really that important to you?"

I ignored him, continuing my quiet task.

Suddenly, he lunged forward and kicked the box out of my hands.

"Stop picking up that trash! It should have been thrown out years ago."

I looked up at him, my voice eerily calm. "Declan, you win."

"You succeeded in making me love you, and you succeeded in making me fall out of love."

He froze, clearly not expecting those words. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out. "What did you say?"

I pushed myself to my feet, the pain so intense I couldn't stand up straight. I remained hunched over, my body trembling.

"I won't ask you for another penny. I won't cling to you. And I won't play the victim anymore."

"I just want to leave. Quietly."

Declans expression shifted. "Leave? Where do you think you're going?"

A small, tired smile touched my lips. "Anywhere is better than here. As long as it's not in the Blackwood house. As long as it's not near you."

"I'd rather be a nobody in a town where no one knows my name. I'd rather lie on the side of the road than stay by your side for another minute."

He stared at me, a flicker of somethingwas it panic?in his eyes. His tone changed abruptly. "You think you can just walk out of here? The gates to this house aren't a revolving door."

I didn't reply. I just slowly turned away from him.

The wind outside howled, whipping my hair around my face, but I felt lighter than I had in years. I knew I might not make it out of the Blackwood estate. I knew my body was failing. But I didn't care anymore.

When your heart is dead, what's the difference between living and dying?

The burning in my lungs became unbearable. A cough escaped my lips, then another. The metallic taste of blood filled my throat. I pressed a hand to my mouth, but it was too late. A violent spasm wracked my body, and I coughed up blood onto the floor.

Declan saw the crimson drops. His pupils constricted in shock. "You're coughing up blood?"

I didn't turn around. "It's nothing," I whispered.

He rushed forward, reaching for my arm. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

I recoiled from his touch, my voice barely audible but sharp as a razor. "Don't touch me, Declan. Don't you dare touch me."

"You're filthy."

His hand froze in mid-air. The panic in his eyes was undeniable now.

"Are you are you really sick?"

I didn't answer. I just gathered my few belongings.

"I have to go."

He hesitated, his gaze flicking between me and the blood on the floor. Just then, Tiffany pranced into the room, her little dog trotting at her heels.

In that moment of his indecision, I walked out.

A friend found me a small place to stay. It wasn't much, but it was enough for the time I had left.

I started writing my will. I had nothing of value to leave, just a few words I needed to say.

Back at the Blackwood mansion, Declan was a storm of restless energy.

Ever since Id left, an unbearable agitation had taken root in his heart. He locked himself in his study, smashing priceless vases against the wall. When Tiffany tried to coax him out, he threw her out of the room without a second thought.

He didn't know what was wrong with him.

Something felt profoundly, fundamentally wrong, but a part of him refused to examine it too closely. He had built his entire reality on a single, unwavering belief: I was a greedy, heartless woman who had stolen his fortune and caused his mother's death.

Then he remembered his assistant had organized some old files from that year. He decided to find them, to look at the proof one last time, to solidify his hatred and kill this gnawing uncertainty for good.

He searched for what felt like hours before finally locating the correct file. But as he read through the documentsbank transfers, hospital invoices, pharmacy receiptsa cold dread began to creep into his veins. It felt like the very foundation of his world was cracking beneath his feet.

Without a moment's hesitation, he grabbed his car keys and sped to the city hospital.

He burst into the office of his mothers former physician. "Tell me what really happened when my mother was sick," he demanded. "Sarah did she use the money from selling my assets to pay for my mother's treatment?"

The doctor looked at Declan, his expression one of pure confusion.

"Mr. Blackwood, why are you asking this? Surely you knew how dire your mother's condition was? She was in the final stages. She could have been gone at any moment. It was your wife, Ms. Sarah, who fought to give her more time. She sold everything she could."

The doctor continued, his voice softening. "I saw her once, in the hospital corridor, eating a dry piece of bread. She was just sitting there, chewing and crying silently. When I asked what was wrong, she just shook her head and said she felt like she'd failed your mother, that she couldn't make her well again."

"Every single dollar from those sales was wired directly to the hospital's account to cover medical fees and surgical procedures. As her primary physician, I saw every transaction. If it weren't for her, your mother would never have held on long enough for you to come back. She would have been gone months earlier."

"Mr. Blackwood, your wife sacrificed everything for your mother, for your family. How could you not know? How could you ever doubt her?"

Declan stood frozen, his body rigid, his mind a roaring void.

The facts he had clung to, the reasons for his burning hatred, had all just turned to ash.

The doctor was still speaking, but the words were a meaningless buzz in Declan's ears. The world tilted, black spots dancing in his vision.

After a long silence, he finally managed to force out a question, his voice a ragged whisper. "Doctor Sarah how is she now? Her health?"

The doctors face fell. He shook his head and let out a heavy sigh.

"Ms. Sarah came in for a check-up a while ago. It's late-stage lung cancer, Mr. Blackwood. She doesn't have much time left."

"She said she didn't want treatment. She just wants to live out her final days in peace."