The scalpel of truth cuts deeper than any surgeon ever could.\n\nI sat in the sterile white room, the oncologist’s words echoing: 'Stage IV. Aggressive. Treatment options limited.' My hands didn’t shake. My vision didn’t blur. Instead, I laughed—a low, raw sound that startled even me. All these years, I’d been afraid of making waves, of being 'difficult.' And for what? To be forgotten in my own home?\n\nThat night, Ethan came in late, loosening his tie, already complaining about Margaret’s dinner plans for Sunday. He didn’t notice the suitcase by the door. He didn’t see the fire in my eyes until I said, 'I’m not coming back.'\n\nHe froze. 'What? Where would you even go?'\n\nI stepped forward, my voice steady for the first time in a decade. 'That’s the point, Ethan. It’s not about where I go. It’s that I get to choose.'\n\nNow, standing in the dim hallway, I wait. Do I leave tonight—cutting all ties—or stay one more week to settle things on my terms?