A Wake-Up Call to Let Me Escape From the Garbage

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."