Terminal Cancer
1290 Words
"Miss Evans, your test results are in."
"Terminal cancer. You have at most six months left."
The driver kept his eyes on the road.
Leah sat in the back seat of the Maybach, her posture rigid from years of training. She sat upright, her knees together, hands holding the medical report resting neatly in front of her.
She stared blankly out the window, the doctor's words echoing in her mind, flashing images of her 24 years of life.
The Evans family was a century-old literary lineage that began to decline with the elder David Evans, and now her father Martin faced bankruptcy. They were no longer notable in L.A.
From a young age, Leah had been strictly controlled. Everything, from her career choices to her daily speech and meals, had to adhere to family rules.
Gradually, she became the top socialite in Los Angeles, admired by many and a source of pride for her parents.
Two years ago, her father arranged a marriage with the Carter family to revive the family business, marrying her off to the second son without her consent.
The next day, her brother took the wedding check given by the Carters.
In her two years as Mrs. Carter, she dutifully fulfilled her role, attending social salons, building connections, and honoring her elders in the Carter family, all according to her mother’s teachings.
She compromised. She endured.
In her upbringing, women were meant to focus on the home; that was just how it was.
Now, watching the bustling scenes outside—the lively students, young professionals striving for their careers, couples holding hands, and happy families—she suddenly felt hollow.
She hadn’t experienced a carefree student life. She hadn’t enjoyed a sweet marriage. She had never known the feeling of being cherished by her parents; she didn’t even know what it felt like to be loved.
Facing death, she realized she had no joyful memories. In her 24 years, nearly ten thousand days and nights, it seemed she had never found any true meaning in her existence.
The driver spoke up, “Madam, I’m taking you to Mrs. Lee's house. Mrs. Price is hosting a salon at 3:30 PM, and there’s a tea party at 5.”
“Take me home.”
The driver paused at her cold tone.
He gripped the steering wheel, glancing in the rearview mirror to confirm that it was indeed her speaking. But usually, her voice was soft and gentle, like cotton—warm and caring.
In their circles, whoever hosted a salon would always expect her to attend, no matter how busy she was. After all, men work outside, and women manage the home.
Today, why wasn’t she going?
---
**Orchard View Villa.**
As soon as the car stopped, Leah got out and walked through the gravel path directly into the house, heading for the second floor.
The master bedroom was simply furnished. Her vanity and closet were minimal, almost devoid of luxury items.
Her father had always taught her that after marriage, a woman should focus entirely on her home and husband. Save money, put it in her husband's account—what's his is hers.
That was wrong.
Regardless of gender, only those with financial control have the right to speak.
Husbands can lose interest, marriages can fail, but money is real, sitting in an account, tangible and reliable, providing safety and confidence.
Leah spent the afternoon in her bedroom, reviewing all her bank accounts, properties, investments, debts, and cash. She arranged for a professional trustee to organize her assets, and by the time she finished, night had fallen.
*Knock, knock!*
The maid, Holly, knocked on the door.
She entered respectfully, saying, “Madam, your husband is back from his business trip. He’ll be home in half an hour. You can start preparing dinner now.”
Leah remained silent.
She put down what she was holding and stood up, saying, “Have the maid prepare dinner. I’ll come down in ten minutes. Just make enough for me.”
“Aren’t you going to cook for him?”
“He has hands; he can cook for himself.”
“If you’re not cooking, I’ll have the maid prepare a meal for two. When he returns, you and he—”
“He didn’t inform me of his trip, and now that he’s back in L.A., why should I wait for him to have dinner? Why should I prepare a feast for him? He’s gotten too used to it.”
Leah turned and walked into her closet.
Holly stood there, confused.
After a long moment, as Leah's figure disappeared, she shook herself back to reality. Was that really the Madam speaking? How could she say such things?
The Madam was the epitome of a Los Angeles socialite, graceful and elegant in every gesture, her voice soft and gentle. Though there wasn’t much affection between her and her husband, they maintained a respectful distance.
What had changed so suddenly?
---
To maintain her slim figure, Leah had never been well-fed growing up.
If her weight exceeded 90 pounds, her parents wouldn’t allow her to eat. Her diet was strictly controlled, akin to what a diabetic would follow, but with even smaller portions.
Tonight was different.
Under the watchful eyes of the staff, Leah devoured a lobster, scallops, bass, filet mignon, and a bowl of seafood soup—all went into her stomach.
Afterward, she washed some fresh strawberries, sitting cross-legged on the living room sofa to eat.
Before long, the sound of a car approached from the tree-lined avenue. She ignored it, adjusting her position to continue watching TV. Just as she was about to grab the remote to change the channel, she heard footsteps approaching.
Leah looked up.
In her view stood Frederick Carter, impeccably dressed in a suit without a wrinkle, his appearance as aloof as his demeanor. With a sharp nose, thin lips, and gold-rimmed glasses, he exuded an air of cold detachment.
He often traveled for work.
In her memory, they had been married for two years, and it seemed she had only seen him three times.
Seeing Leah with her hair casually down, dressed in loungewear, he frowned slightly. “Did you not know I was coming back today?”
Leah looked down at her strawberries, avoiding his gaze. “No, you didn’t tell me.”
“Did you eat dinner?”
“Yes.”
“You didn’t wait for me?”
“Correct.” Leah stood up with the bowl of strawberries, slipping on her slippers. When she reached him, she paused, “The maid is making your dinner now. You’ll be able to eat in half an hour.”
The woman before him seemed changed.
Her appearance hadn’t shifted, but her personality had transformed drastically.
In his memory, every time Frederick returned to Orchard View Villa, Leah was always waiting at the gate, smiling as she walked beside him into the villa, helping him with his shoes and adjusting his suit jacket.
The meals were always prepared ahead of time.
This time, he had been away for three months—nearly a hundred days without seeing her. What had she been doing?
Frederick had no time to ponder her changes.
Whatever she did was none of his concern.
Their marriage had been forced, and neither had any feelings for the other. To him, Leah was simply a legal wife, and as long as he fulfilled his obligations—sending money monthly—he was done.
Frederick turned his gaze away and headed upstairs to his study.
Watching him walk away, Holly approached Leah and quietly asked, “Madam, is he angry?”
Leah replied, “These strawberries are so sweet.”
Holly: “…”
- Writer
