The seventh-floor room of a private hospital was strangely quiet. The heart monitor beeped steadily, 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 pile 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 towards her briefly:
“Divorce papers. I’ve already written them. You just have to sign them and that’s it.

Hanh was stunned. His lips moved, his throat still ached from the operation, he couldn’t form words. His eyes were filled with pain and confusion.

“Are you kidding?”

“I’m not kidding. I told you that I don’t want to live with a weak and 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 talking about changing phones, not abandoning his wife with whom he had spent almost 10 years of his life.

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

“Then…” you waited for the moment when I couldn’t move, I couldn’t react… to force me to sign?

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

Hanh pursed his lips. The pain in his throat was nothing compared to the pain screaming in his heart. But she didn’t scream or cry loudly, she just asked softly:

“Where’s the pen?”

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

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

He put the pen in his hand. Hanh took it with trembling hands and signed it slowly.

“That’s it. I wish you happiness.

“Thank you. I will return the property as we agreed. Goodbye.

Khai turned and left. The door closed, frighteningly soft. But not even three minutes passed when it opened again.

A man entered. It was Dr. Quan, Hanh’s best friend since college, who had performed his operation. In her hands she 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 for a divorce.

“Are you okay?”

“Better than ever.

Quan sat down beside him, laid the flowers on the table, and then silently handed him 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 give them to me to sign.

Hanh opened it and signed it 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 fine when I’m tired.

“I’m here. Not to replace anyone, but to be with you if you need me.

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

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

“Thank you for choosing to leave, so that I no longer have to try to hold on to someone who is already gone.
The one left behind is not 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 mercilessly abandoned.