The seventh-floor room in a private hospital was eerily quiet. The heart monitor beeped steadily, the white light illuminating the pale face of Hanh, a woman who had just undergone surgery for a thyroid tumor.

Before she could fully wake up from the anesthesia, Hanh saw her husband Khai standing at the foot of the bed, holding a stack of papers in his hand.

—Are you awake? Okay, sign here.

His voice was cold, without a hint of compassion.

Hanh was confused:
“What is this… what papers?”

Khai pushed the papers toward her briefly.
“Divorce papers. I already wrote them. Just sign them, and that’s it.”

Hanh was stunned. Her lips were moving, her throat still ached from the operation, and she couldn’t form words. Her eyes were filled with pain and confusion.

-Are you kidding?

—I’m not joking. I told you I don’t want to live with a weak, sick woman all year round. I’m tired of carrying this burden alone. You should let me live with my true feelings.

Khai spoke calmly, as if he were talking about changing his phone, not abandoning his wife with whom he had spent almost 10 years of his life.

Hanh smiled weakly, tears rolling down the corners of his eyes.

—So… you waited for the moment when I couldn’t move, couldn’t react… to force me to sign?

Khai was silent for a few seconds, then nodded.
“Don’t blame me. This was bound to happen sooner or later. I have someone else. She doesn’t want to live in darkness anymore.”

Hanh pressed his lips together. The pain in his throat was nothing compared to the pain screaming in his heart. But he didn’t scream or cry out loud, just asked softly:

—Where is the pen?

Khai was surprised.
“Are you really going to sign?”

—Didn’t you say this had to be done sooner or later?

He placed the pen in her hand. Hanh took it with trembling hands and signed slowly.

—There. I wish you happiness.

—Thank you. I’ll return the property as agreed. Goodbye.

Khai turned and left. The door closed, terrifyingly soft. But less than three minutes passed before it opened again.

A man came in. It was Dr. Quan, Hanh’s best friend since college, who had performed her operation. In his hands, he carried the medical records and a bouquet of white roses.

—I heard the nurse say Khai just arrived?

Hanh nodded, smiling slightly:
“Yes, I came to get a divorce.”

-Are you OK?

—Better than ever.

Quan sat down next to her, placed the flowers on the table, and then silently handed her an envelope.

—This is a copy of the divorce papers your lawyer sent me. The other day you said: If Khai delivers the papers first, then you’ll give them to me to sign.

Hanh opened it and signed without hesitation. He turned to look at Quan, his eyes brighter than ever:

—From now on, I won’t live for anyone else. I don’t have to force myself to be a “good enough” wife, or pretend I’m okay when I’m tired.

—I’m here. Not to replace anyone, but to be there for you if you need me.

Hanh nodded slightly. A tear fell, not from pain, but from relief.

A week later, Khai received a package by express mail. It was a fully signed divorce decree. Attached was a small handwritten note:

“Thank you for choosing to leave, so I no longer have to try to hold on to someone who’s already gone.
The one left behind isn’t me.
It’s you—forever losing someone who once loved you with everything they had.”

At that moment, Khai understood: the person who thought he had the initiative was the one who was ruthlessly abandoned.