Monica remained silent, but Tim, standing beside her, broke into a broad smile, his voice brimming with triumph.

"Carter, I'm surprised by your understanding. I should express my gratitude for your years of caring for Monica. Rest assured, I'll look after her and your daughter from now on."

Monica appeared not to hear him. She gripped the pen so tightly that her knuckles paled. Suddenly, she erupted.

"Carter, after two decades, you pull this now? What's the purpose? Couldn't you just let things conclude peacefully?"

She leaned in, her words sharp and biting.

"And what's your plan post-divorce? Do you actually think I'll keep you at the company? A man your age without connections—who would hire you? As my spouse, you could have lived comfortably on our family's wealth. But now? What's your strategy?"

Her cutting remarks didn't affect me at all.

I offered a small, self-mocking smile.

She was correct—our daughter was of marriageable age. What was the point of causing a stir now?

Years back, I'd used every resource at my disposal—calling in favors and leveraging all my credit—to negotiate with the system for a chance at a lifetime in this world.

The system had cautioned me clinically: "This is your only opportunity. I have other clients to assist. Once I depart, there's no going back. Any future regrets will be yours alone to bear."

At that moment, I wasn't considering the consequences. I was embracing Monica, who held our newborn daughter. Overwhelmed with joy, I'd promised without hesitation, "I'll never regret this."

But that was before Tim's return.

Before he shattered the delicate facade of our perfect life.

What I'd believed was happiness turned out to be an illusion.

Years ago, I'd contemplated leaving Monica. I even mentioned it once, but our daughter had clung to me, weeping, pleading with us not to separate.

My mother had reprimanded me then: "You don't realize how fortunate you are. As long as you're legally married, Tim can create all the drama he wants, but it won't impact your inheritance."

I stayed, telling myself it was for Julia. For my mother.

But I wasn't content.

I felt trapped.

This time, however, the brain tumor changed everything.

Monica and Julia's apathy, their coldness—it liberated me.

Returning to the present, I looked at Monica and replied calmly: "Monica, my future is no longer your concern. Unless... are you suddenly worried about me?"

I knew she detested when I behaved this way—composed, aloof, and impossible to provoke.

As expected, her expression soured. She glared at me, repulsed, then grabbed the pen and hastily signed the divorce papers.

"Very well," she snapped. "But don't come back later, weeping and begging for another chance. You're banned from the company."

With that, she seized Tim's arm and stormed out, her heels echoing loudly on the wooden floor.

The house fell quiet once more.

I sat on the sofa, gazing at the home I'd inhabited for over two decades.

Every item of furniture, every ornament, was ingrained in my memory.

Yet, I felt like an outsider—as if I'd always been merely a visitor.

Eventually, hunger roused me from my thoughts.

I went to the kitchen and discarded the half-prepared ingredients: beef, lamb, salmon—all Monica and Julia's favorites. Then, I cooked a simple bowl of noodles for myself.

The noodles were plain, seasoned with just a bit of salt and oil.

As I ate, I reminisced about the early days of my marriage.

Monica had been a pampered heiress, unfamiliar with household chores. Yet, for my birthday, she'd insisted on making me noodles, donning an apron over her designer dress and covering herself in flour.

She'd scalded her hand in the process, but had laughed it off, urging me to eat.

"Enjoy," she'd said. "Longevity noodles for a long, happy life together."

The noodles had been awful—thick and undercooked, the broth overly salty—but I'd eaten every bite, convinced that Monica was my soulmate.

Now, her youthful face was just a hazy memory.

A stabbing pain in my head jolted me back to reality. I reached for the painkillers the doctor had prescribed and swallowed them without water.

Once the pain subsided, I washed the dishes, dried my hands, and retrieved a suitcase to begin packing.

It didn't take long—most of the items in the house belonged to Monica or Julia.

After finishing, I went to the closet and pulled out an old box I'd hidden away for years.

Inside were all the things I'd once treasured: Movie ticket stubs from dates with Monica. Our wedding photos. A tie clip she'd gifted me.

Julia's childhood drawings, her handwritten school notes—all meticulously preserved in plastic sleeves.

I carried the box to the backyard, placing it on the firepit Monica and Tim used for their lavish dinner parties.

Then, without hesitation, I struck a match and watched the flames engulf everything.

The firelight danced across my face, but I felt nothing.

Suddenly, rain began to pour, extinguishing the fire instantly.

I glanced at the charred remains of the box. Most of it had turned to ash. I didn't bother examining it further.

Afterward, I deactivated all my social media accounts and erased my contacts.

I'd always been a wanderer, a man without roots. Now, I was completely removing myself from Monica and Julia's world.

Once my suitcase was packed, I drove to the office to hand over my responsibilities and clear out my desk.

As I gathered my belongings, my colleagues stopped by, their faces full of envy.

"Carter, I can't believe you're retiring so soon! Monica must really love you to let you step down early. We're all jealous!"

"Yeah, if I had a wife and kid like yours, I'd retire early too. Enjoy life, man."

I forced a smile, remaining silent.

None of them knew the truth.

Over the years, Monica had cultivated the image of a perfect marriage for the company's sake. Publicly, we were the ideal couple—attending charity events, buying expensive cars, and flaunting our wealth.

But every gift she "purchased" for me ended up in Tim's possession.

And I had to play along, pretending to be modest and frugal while she lavished him with everything I'd supposedly received.

As I carried my files out of the office, I overheard the HR manager instructing a team.

"Prepare the new VP's office," he said, glancing at me briefly. "Ensure it's perfect. Monica's bringing in someone new."

Curious, one of the employees asked, "Who's the new VP?"

The HR manager smirked slightly, then revealed a nameplate: "Vice President: Tim Evans."

The crowd around me gaped in astonishment, but I merely smiled wryly, a self-mocking expression playing on my face.

For ages, I'd been forced to use the most antiquated equipment in the firm.

Whenever the company upgraded its technology, I'd put in a request for a new computer. And each time, Monica would turn it down with a scowl.

"Why are you so vain?" she'd inquire. "Doesn't your old computer still function? Stop being wasteful."

But when it came to Tim, she never compromised.

Whatever he desired, she provided in full—except for her surname.

In the past, the blatant inequality in her treatment of us would have infuriated me. It might have even shattered my heart.

But not anymore.

Now, I could only feel a peculiar sense of detachment, perhaps even a touch of amusement.

Monica was eager to assist Tim in climbing to the top. Wasn't this what true love looked like?

Dismissing the thought, I acknowledged the HR manager, pivoted, and walked away from the company I had dedicated my life to.

After exiting the office, I drove to a funeral supply store.

I reasoned that if I was going to pass away, I might as well do it with some dignity.

The salesperson presented the options, but my funds were scarce. Most of my money had already been used to prepay the mortician for handling my remains when the time came. So I opted for the least expensive burial suit they had.

Holding the suit in my arms, I stepped out of the store, only to hear the rumble of a motorcycle racing by.

The exhaust fumes choked me, causing me to cough.

Moments later, the bike circled back and halted abruptly in front of me.

From the back seat, a girl dismounted—a teenager with heavy makeup, a midriff-baring top, and a matching attitude.

It was Julia.

She swaggered over, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

"Well, well, look who's still breathing. Hurry up and send me ten grand. My boyfriend wants a new ride."

Her words stung, but I forced myself to remain composed.

"I don't have any money," I stated plainly.

Julia scoffed, her heavily made-up face contorting in disbelief.

"Yeah, right. You're broke? Come on. Mom would never leave you penniless."

Her voice was laced with contempt.

And why wouldn't she think that? To outsiders, I appeared to be the quintessential kept man—a trophy husband in an affluent family.

But the reality was far less glamorous.

Monica never entrusted me with finances. My wages went straight into her account, and every expenditure—no matter how trivial—required her approval.

Even when I needed cigarettes, she'd insist I purchase the cheapest brand.

To make ends meet, I took on extra work to scrape together some additional cash.

When I received the tumor diagnosis, I brought the medical bills to Monica and asked for assistance.

Her response?

She accused me of trying to con her, called me a liar, and demanded to know why I thought she'd hand over ten grand as if her wealth was limitless.

Then, as if that wasn't enough, she confined me to the house to "reflect on my behavior" and took Tim on a private flight to Alaska to view the aurora borealis.

While I was locked up, my mother passed away.

I never got to bid her farewell.

When I heard the news, my relatives informed me she'd died with tears streaming down her face, cursing me for being a selfish son who had married an even more selfish wife.

The memory still pained me, but I pushed it aside and focused on the girl before me.

Julia smirked, clearly relishing the situation.

"Fine," she said, tossing her hair. "If you're not giving me money, I'll just ask Uncle Tim. He's way better than you—wealthy, attractive, and actually enjoyable to be around."

Her words no longer hurt me. Not anymore.

I gazed at her for a moment, wondering how the sweet girl I'd raised had transformed into... this.

When Tim first reentered our lives, Monica had all but abandoned us. I became both mother and father, pouring everything I had into raising Julia.

She used to be on my side, directing icy glares and sharp words at Monica and Tim.

But everything changed when she turned 17.

She fell for a dropout with bleached hair—a boy who pulled her into his chaotic world. She left school, began missing curfews, and regularly demanded money from me.

I attempted to stop her, to guide her back to the right path.

But one day, when I confronted her boyfriend, he arrived with a group of his friends and beat me severely.

And Julia?

She stood on the sidelines, cheering them on.

"Toughen up, old man!" she shouted. "Learn your lesson!"

After that, something inside me shattered.

I stopped trying to save her.

Later, while I was recovering from my injuries, she appeared, all smiles and apologies. She vowed to make amends, even offering to spend my birthday with me.

I waited all day for her.

Instead, I saw a video Tim posted on social media.

In it, Julia was at an extravagant dinner, clinging to Tim's arm and giggling as she said, "Happy vacation, Dad! Hope you and Mom have an incredible time in Florence!"

Then she accepted a thick red envelope from him with a bright, grateful smile.

I'd been in the kitchen preparing dinner when I saw the post. The next thing I knew, I was on the floor, my head throbbing, the tumor finally taking its toll.

Now, standing before her again, I felt... nothing.

I exhaled softly and said, "Go ahead. Ask Tim for the money."

Then, after a pause, I added: "Oh, and by the way your mom and I are divorced now. You can stop calling him Uncle Tim. Just call him Dad—it suits him better."