A Goodbye Without a Period

The day the pork stamp was pressed against my cheek, I was reborn. It was a joke, a little prank from Lucas’s young secretary during what was meant to be our seventh-anniversary dinner. She was pouring me a glass of wine when she did it, laughing as the greasy, purple ink branded my skin. This time, I didn’t slap her like I did in my last life. And I didn’t scream at Lucas like a madwoman, demanding a divorce when he rushed to her defense. Instead, I just smiled at him, a calm, serene little smile. “She’s really something, isn’t she? You two have fun.” I picked up my purse. “Let’s just consider our anniversary celebration officially over. I’m heading home.” I walked out of that private dining room without a backward glance. What else could I do? The last time I divorced Lucas, my life became a living hell. He crushed me with the same ruthless precision he used on his business rivals, holding onto every asset with a death grip. I consulted every lawyer in the city and walked away with a grand total of forty-eight dollars. Right after the divorce, I was diagnosed with cancer. When the pain became unbearable, I swallowed my pride and went to him, kneeling at his feet. But he just stood there, letting his new secretary slap me three times across the face before turning me away without a single cent. Broke and alone, I froze to death on the doorstep of the house we had shared for seven years. So no, dignity is not more important than life.

1 I didn’t expect him to follow me out. He grabbed my arm, his grip tight. “Sophie, let me explain. Jenna is just young and playful. She thought the pork stamp would be a funny way to break the ice.” “She doesn’t have a mean bone in her body,” he continued, his voice softening. “We grew up together. She’s always been a little mischief-maker, and since you’re my wife, she probably just got a little too comfortable and forgot her boundaries. Don’t be angry with her.” He’d said the exact same thing in my last life. Back then, humiliated and shaking with rage, his gentle defense of another woman had been the final straw. In front of all our friends, I had slapped him across the face, screamed the word “divorce,” and stormed out. I was so naive then, thinking the threat of leaving him actually meant something. I walked the streets for four hours in a cold, miserable winter drizzle, tears streaming down my face. My heels rubbed my ankles raw until they bled. I caught a fever that spiked to 104 degrees. And as I lay in our bed, shivering and sick, Lucas never called. He didn’t even try to find me. Instead, he and Jenna flew to Europe on a business trip that very night. Pictures of him adjusting the strap of her cocktail dress, of her leaning in to kiss his cheek, were all over his company’s gossip forums. The memory was so bitterly ironic that a small, mocking smile touched my lips. That smile seemed to snap something in him. He suddenly shoved my hand away, his voice sharp with anger. “How many times do I have to tell you? Jenna is the daughter of my dad’s old friend. I’m just looking out for her.” “It was a stupid pork stamp. Go home and wash it off. Can you stop being so ridiculously jealous and making up stories about us in your head?” The sudden fury on his face sent a familiar ache through my chest. But the pain wasn’t for him. It was for the woman I used to be. In my last life, I had pancreatic cancer, one of the most agonizing forms of the disease. My days were a blur of nurses jabbing me with long needles, leaving me a sniffling, tear-streaked mess. At night, I would curl into a ball on the floor, clutching my stomach, sobbing and praying for a quick death. When I ran out of money, I’d take a fruit knife and cut into my own emaciated flesh, just hoping the new pain would offer a moment’s distraction, a chance for a full night’s sleep. Even then, even in that state, I couldn’t bring myself to sell our wedding rings for another dose of painkillers. When the doctor told me I had a month to live, I dragged my skeletal frame to his house, planning to beg him to take me back. He had sworn, after my parents died, that he would take care of me for the rest of my life. I finally found my way back to the home we’d shared for seven years. I had to kneel and beg the security guard just to get him to call Lucas for me. When he answered, I barely managed to whisper his name before he cut me off, his voice flat and cold. “Sophie, we’re divorced. That means we have nothing to do with each other anymore. Whatever is happening in your life, don’t call me again.” He hung up. I collapsed in the backyard of that sprawling mansion. In the final moments of my life, as my vision faded, I saw him through the window. He was holding Jenna, laughing in the home I had so carefully decorated, drinking from the wine glasses I had chosen, sharing a sweet, intimate kiss. The memory was a suffocating weight. I pushed it down, forcing the smile back onto my face. “Lucas, I’m really not jealous. And I’m not mad at Jenna,” I said, my voice even. “I’m just tired and I want to go home. You should go back inside.” Surprise flickered across his face. While he was still processing my words, I turned and walked away without another glance.

2 The first thing I did when I got home was go to my room, lock the door, and call the hospital. I booked an appointment for a full check-up with a top specialist for the next morning. Whether it was this life or the last, all I ever wanted was to live. I had just hung up when Lucas came home. I didn’t know he’d be back so soon. He was yanking at his tie, his face a mask of irritation. “What was that on the street just now?” he demanded. “Sophie, can you stop pulling a long face over every little thing?” Ever since Jenna had become his secretary, he had become relentlessly critical of me. Nothing I did was ever right. It was his sudden change in attitude, coupled with Jenna’s constant provocations, that had driven me to madness in our last marriage. I suppressed the suffocating pain in my chest and turned to face him calmly. “Lucas, believe it or not, I’m not angry. I’m not trying to cause a scene, and I’m not giving you the silent treatment.” I gestured to my face. “See? The pork stamp is all washed off. I’m not holding a grudge against you, and I certainly don’t have the energy to hold one against Jenna.” Without waiting for a reply, I turned and locked myself in the bathroom. When I came out, Lucas was gone. But my phone was blowing up. It was Jenna’s signature move. Whenever she was with him, she would bombard me with photos of them together, treating my inbox like her personal photo dump. In my past life, her pictures would send me into fits of tears or rages that I’d take out on Lucas. This time, I looked at the photo she sent and typed a reply. I wasn’t insulting. In fact, I was very sincere. “You’re holding the phone at the wrong angle,” I wrote. “Lucas’s profile is his better side. Try holding it higher next time.” “Also, there’s too much empty space in the shot. Crop it tighter so you two look closer, more intimate.” A reply came back almost instantly. “Did someone hack your account?” I sent her a smiling emoji. “Nope. Just wanted to let you know, he’s all yours.” Then, I blocked her number. This new arrangement worked for me. I’d keep the title of Mrs. Hayes and the supplementary credit card. Jenna could have his body and his time. It was a much better deal than the one I’d fought for last time, when all I’d foolishly wanted was his love.

3 After dealing with Jenna, I lay down and closed my eyes. But even with a second chance at life, sleep didn’t come easily. Just like when I was sick, my dreams were haunted by our past. When we were kids, Lucas was painfully shy and introverted. His mother, a renowned teacher, was relentlessly hard on him. She would beat him for every mistake. I remember seeing him late at night, sometimes midnight when I’d already been asleep for hours, hunched over his desk under the harsh glare of a lamp. He’d be wearing his thick glasses, scribbling away at worksheets while his mother stood over him with a cane, bringing it down hard on his back for every wrong answer. I lived across the street, and it broke my heart to watch. So, whenever I got a piece of candy, I would secretly slip it into his backpack on the way to school. “Lucas,” I’d whisper with a smile, “eat one when your back hurts.” The first time I did it, his face turned beet red. He waited until I was a hundred feet away before mumbling, “I… I don’t eat candy.” I just waved back at him. “You should talk more, Lucas. You have a really nice voice.” It became our ritual. The quiet, solitary Lucas started waiting for me on the walk to school, waiting for me to slip a piece of candy into his bag. We walked that little alleyway outside our neighborhood through countless springs, summers, and winters. Then came our high school graduation. Lucas, the valedictorian, was heading to a top university. He awkwardly handed me a brochure for another school. “I looked it up,” he stammered, pushing his glasses up his nose. “It’s only a ten-minute walk from my campus. Your scores aren’t high enough for a four-year degree, but you could get into their two-year program.” Looking at his earnest, nervous face, I didn’t have the heart to tell him that my parents had already decided I would go to a four-year university, even a lesser-known one. They said they could afford it. So, I secretly changed my application, against their wishes. The decision earned me a tag-team lecture from both of them, but I never regretted it. We went to college in the same city. Away from his mother, Lucas blossomed. He swapped his thick glasses for contacts, grew out his buzz cut into soft curls, and traded his plaid shirts for crisp, white button-downs. His ever-present black sneakers were replaced with stylish white ones. I had no idea what prompted the change until one day, I was squealing with excitement because my favorite band was coming to town. Lucas grabbed my arm, his eyes red-rimmed. “I changed everything to be the person you’d like,” he said, his voice trembling. “Is it still not enough to make you like me back?” The word “like” hit me like a physical blow. Even though we were at different schools, I knew about the legend of Lucas Hayes. He was a programming prodigy, winning national competitions as a freshman and landing offers from major tech firms by his sophomore year. A group of girls had even started an online forum dedicated to documenting his transformation. I always thought there was an ocean between us, that we would never be more than friends. But here he was, telling me he liked me. Never one to be shy, I stood on my toes and kissed him. We started dating. My main role, as I saw it, was to supply him with a steady stream of my favorite milk teas, desserts, and pastries. I had no life plan; my days revolved around what to feed Lucas, where to take him, what to do for fun. Meanwhile, his life continued its meteoric rise. He started his own company while in grad school, secured multiple rounds of funding right after, and by the time he finished his PhD, his tech firm was in the top ten in the country. My life, in stark contrast, felt cursed. I failed the exam to transfer to a four-year program. After graduation, I lived entirely off the allowance Lucas gave me. Then, in my second year out of college, my parents, who had always doted on me, were rushing to see me in the hospital for a bout of pneumonia when they were killed in a car crash. I was an orphan. I clung to their bodies, my tears soaking through the sterile white sheets. And Lucas knelt beside me, in front of them, and under the cold, disapproving gaze of his mother, he swore he would take care of me for the rest of my life. We got married. I had multiple miscarriages, losing every pregnancy. Then, he met Jenna. He started to find fault with me. I was shallow, he said. All I ever did was ask him what he wanted to eat or drink. I wasn’t like Jenna, who could discuss world-famous paintings with him, who could debate the future of the tech industry. Tears welled in my eyes. I blinked them open to find the room filled with morning light. Just like in my last life, my pillow was soaked through. Just then, a text from Lucas came through. We’re visiting my mom at the nursing home this afternoon.

4 I looked at the message and replied calmly: I have something on today. Can’t make it. His call came instantly. “What do you have on today?” he demanded. “Sophie, how many times do I have to tell you there’s nothing going on between me and Jenna? Why do you have to keep harping on this one little thing?” A bitter smile touched my lips. Ever since his company took off, Lucas had become a man of few words. For him to circle back to the same topic over and over… was he trying to convince himself he wasn’t interested in Jenna, or was he just trying to ease his own guilt? A shiver of pain went through me, but my voice was steady. “Lucas, I don’t feel well. I have a hospital appointment. I really can’t go with you to see your mom today.” “Besides,” I added, “she has a heart condition, and she’s never liked me. Isn’t it better if I don’t go and upset her? And doesn’t she adore Jenna? She’s always saying that only someone of Jenna’s status is good enough for you. Why don’t you take her instead?” I genuinely thought I was offering a reasonable solution. But it only made him angrier. “Fine, Sophie. Keep playing your games.” He hung up. Listening to the dial tone, I let out another small, humorless laugh. See? That was the difference between being loved and not being loved. The old Lucas, the one who loved me, would panic at the slightest hint of sadness on my face, asking frantically what he’d done wrong. The Lucas of today, the one who didn’t love me, heard a sincere suggestion and still thought I was just trying to stir up trouble.

5 The ache in my chest was a familiar weight, but I didn’t let it delay me. I went straight to the hospital. I deliberately left my phone at home, afraid that another call would ruin my mood. This check-up was too important. It would determine whether or not I was destined to repeat the fate of my past life. For the next seven days, I stayed at the hospital, undergoing biopsies, blood tests, and endless scans. I had to thank Lucas’s reputation—and his bank account—for the quality of my care. By dropping his name, I was able to see a specialist who, in my last life, I had waited a month just to get an appointment with. Now, he saw me first on his rounds every single morning. In my past life, I’d had to sell my bags and jewelry to afford treatment. I had no special access, which meant a new trip to the hospital for every test, waiting two hours for a blood draw, a week for a CT scan. This time, thanks to Lucas, I just had to lie in a VIP room while nurses came to me. The news was good. And bad. I did have cancer, but it was in its earliest stages. When the doctor told me, his face was full of pity. I, on the other hand, burst into tears, my body shaking uncontrollably. Everyone assumed I was terrified. Only I knew they were tears of joy. I finally had a chance to live. I checked into the hospital that same day to begin treatment. I was confident I could beat it. This time, I had money, the best doctors, and the best medicine. Chemotherapy was still hell, but because it was early-stage, the drugs were less aggressive. They were imported, a world away from the generic drugs with their brutal side effects I’d endured last time. Other than losing my hair and some weight, I felt surprisingly good. I had enough energy for a walk every day. And thanks to the medication, I never once felt the searing, unbearable pain of advanced pancreatic cancer. After a month of treatment, my doctor gave me even more hope. He said that after two more rounds of chemo, there was a high probability I could go home. It was a tiny spark that ignited a fire in my soul. In my last life, my only dream was to be cured, to live. But just as I was about to pay for my third round of treatment, the hospital informed me that my supplementary card had been declined. The account was frozen. When the nurse told me, I remained calm. As long as we were still married, Lucas was legally obligated to pay for my medical care. I asked the nurse for a day pass and took a cab to his office. The receptionist stopped me at the door. “I’m sorry, miss, but you need an appointment to see Mr. Hayes.” I gave her a small smile and pulled my marriage certificate out of my purse. “Does this count as an appointment?” She took one look at it and shot to her feet. “My apologies, Mrs. Hayes. I didn’t recognize you.” I just nodded and followed her to the elevator. As we passed through the open-plan office, I could feel eyes on me. I knew I looked a sight: bald, with a thick down jacket thrown over my hospital gown. But I felt no shame. In my last life, after the divorce, I had come here to beg him for money. I never even made it past the front door. Back then, all I had was a divorce certificate. This time, I had proof of marriage.