Chapter 5
“Since June.”
Victor snapped his head up. “You knew for six months?! And you stayed with me? You took me to dialysis three times a week?!”
“You were dying of kidney failure, Victor.”
“That makes no sense!”
“To you, perhaps it doesn’t.”
“Were you planning some elaborate revenge all along?!”
“No,” Sarah said softly. “I was planning to leave quietly after your transplant was successful. I had looked at a small one-bedroom apartment near the botanical gardens. I wanted to spend whatever time I had left walking in the park, reading, and visiting my sister without checking the clock.”
“Then why did you change your mind?!”
“Because hearing you speak about me as an object broke something inside me that couldn’t be repaired.”
“Did burning the house make you feel better?”
Sarah hesitated. “For a few hours. Afterward… no.”
“Do you regret it?”
“I regret letting my pain drive me to destruction,” she admitted. “I do not regret ensuring that my home was never handed over to your mistress.”
Victor rested his elbows on his knees, staring at the floor. “I don’t even know who you are anymore.”
“That is the tragic truth, Victor. You never bothered to find out.”
He began to weep—not silently, but with heavy, ragged sobs that shook his entire frame. “Sarah… I am so sorry. For Rita, for the house, for speaking about you like that. For all those years I took you for granted.”
Sarah reached out her frail, yellowed hand.
Victor grabbed it, holding it tightly in both of his.
“I forgive you, Victor,” she said quietly.
“I don’t deserve it.”
“Forgiveness isn’t always about what the other person deserves,” Sarah whispered. “Sometimes, it’s simply about refusing to carry the hatred with you when you leave.”
“Let me fix this,” he begged. “Tell me what I can do!”
Sarah looked at him with profound tenderness. “You cannot fix a twenty-two-year marriage in a single afternoon, Victor.”
“Then tell me how I can make it right!”
“Take your anti-rejection medications on time.”
Victor let out a broken laugh. “Sarah…”
“I am completely serious,” she said, her tone firm. “Eight o’clock in the morning. Eight o’clock at night. Not 8:10. Your life now depends on small, boring, repetitive routines.”
May you like
“Like me,” he whispered, tears pouring down his face. “According to me.”
“Like me,” she agreed softly. “According to you.”
