At 52, I had a stroke. «The trip’s paid for, get better,» my husband said, then jetted off to the Maldives with the kids….

Pamela stared at the screen for a long time, deciding whether to answer. Finally, she pressed the button. Hello.

What’s going on? Her husband’s outraged voice pierced the silence of the room. They won’t let us into the house. It’s no longer your home, Pamela replied calmly.

I’ve filed for divorce. You can move in with the kids. They have their own places.

By the way, it was all bought with my money. Pamela, you are not yourself. This is the aftermath of the stroke.

You need treatment, Miguel shouted. On the contrary, I’m finally myself, Pamela replied, feeling her confidence returned to her voice. And yes, the stroke cleared up a lot.

You can’t do this to us. We’re your family. Family? Pamela scoffed bitterly.

Family doesn’t leave a loved one in the hospital for a vacation. Family doesn’t lie with power of attorney documents. Family supports each other in times of trouble, not thinking about their own gain.

Pamela, listen. All the documents are with my lawyer, she interrupted. He’ll contact you to discuss the terms of the divorce.

Pamela pressed the call button and turned off the phone. The room was filled with a peaceful silence. The sunset was beginning outside the window, painting the sky in shades of pink and gold.

Pamela watched the riot of colors, feeling a strange calm. For the first time in many years, she was fully in control of her life and her future. And though months of difficult rehabilitation and legal battles lay ahead, she knew she would manage.

That night, Pamela slept without sleeping pills. She dreamed not of nightmares about illness and betrayal, but of the ocean. Endless, calm, with soft waves rolling onto the white sand.

She stood on the shore, strong, healthy, free, watching as the dawn painted the horizon with the gentle colors of sunrise. A new day. A new life.

And she was ready for this journey. The early morning hours in the rehabilitation center began with the muted hum of voices in the corridor, the clinking of dishes on the serving cart, and the birds chirping outside the window. Pamela was no longer asleep.

The nights had become restless, her body, used to activity, protested the forced stillness, and her thoughts, seemingly left to themselves, circled around recent events, constructing a new picture of reality. The door quietly opened, and Gloria entered the room. After Pamela’s transfer to the rehabilitation center, the nurse had taken time off from the hospital and started working here part-time to continue helping her patient.

Good morning, Pamela. How did you sleep? She asked, pulling the curtains apart. Better, thank you.

Pamela’s voice had strengthened over the past weeks, and words no longer had to be pulled out with such effort, although she still stumbled over difficult consonant combinations sometimes. Gloria helped her sit up in bed, propping her back with pillows, and placed a tray with breakfast on the bedside table, oatmeal, a cheese toast, yogurt, and tea. You have a busy schedule today.

After breakfast, massage, then occupational therapy, lunch, and after that, speech therapy and physiotherapy, Gloria said as she flipped through the procedure book. Pamela nodded, concentrating as she broke the toast with her healthy left hand. Her right hand still didn’t obey well, but progress was noticeable every day.

And at six o’clock, you have a visitor, Gloria added, scanning the schedule. Gabriel called, said he would bring some important documents. Pamela sighed.

I hope the divorce is moving forward. Are you sure you want this? The nurse asked cautiously. You’ve been together for almost 30 years.

28, Pamela corrected her. And yes, I’m sure, more than ever. The illness, it clarified a lot.

It’s like a veil was lifted from my eyes. Gloria nodded understandingly. It often happens that way.

When a person is on the edge, many things are seen differently. The morning and day passed in intense work. The masseuse worked on the stubborn muscles on Pamela’s right side, helping them remember how to move.

The occupational therapist taught her to perform simple everyday actions again, buttoning a shirt, holding a cup, brushing her teeth. The speech therapist worked on her articulation, making her repeat complex sounds. By evening, Pamela felt exhausted.

But there was something right, something meaningful in this fatigue. Every pain, every effort brought her closer to independence, to a new life. At exactly six o’clock, there was a knock at the door and Gabriel entered with his usual bouquet of chrysanthemums and an imposing folder of documents.

Good evening, Pamela, he greeted, settling into the chair next to the bed. I see you’ve worked hard today. Pamela smiled.

Every day is a battle. But I’m winning, little by little. That’s admirable, the notary nodded.

I have news for you. I met with your husband and his lawyer. Pamela tensed…