A Party for Their Life, A Farewell to Mine

Catriona's POV

A sharp sea breeze cut through me, making my head ache as I stepped out of the hospital.

I clutched the test results in my trembling hand, standing there lost on the cobblestone main street. Advanced liver cancer—Dr. Doyle had given me roughly six months to live.

As I stood there, uncertain of what to do next, the sound of hoofbeats echoed from the direction of my parents' place, the Byrne family ranch. A young stable hand rode up and pulled his horse to a halt before me.

"Mrs. Reid, your mother sent me to find you," the boy said breathlessly. "Miss Siobhan has returned from London today. She wants you to come home immediately."

"After all these years, don't you have anything to say to your sister?" The boy delivered my mother's words, and despite his respectful tone, the sharp edge of her message cut through me.

My nose stung with unshed tears, and my hand holding the diagnosis began to shake.

The stable hand continued, "Oh, and Mr. Reid is there too. He asked me to tell you—'It's Shiv's welcome home party. Come back early.'"

Shiv. Such an intimate nickname.

My husband, Eamon Reid, only ever called me by my full name, always with a hint of impatience. Everyone in town said I had stolen Eamon from under someone else's nose.

Even Eamon seemed to believe it—that marrying me had been an unavoidable burden.

My adopted sister Siobhan had fled heartbroken to London because of it, not returning for years. So Eamon, with no one left to compete for him, became my husband.

But the years hadn't dulled their feelings for each other.

Thinking of them together now, I could almost hear Siobhan's silvery laughter and Eamon's warm responses. That kind of joy, that carefree happiness—he had never shown it to me.

No matter how hard I tried to please him, his smiles were always forced, barely touching his lips, never reaching his eyes.

From the very beginning, I was nothing more than the villain who stole another's love, like the most despicable characters in the moral tales the parish priest told.

So perhaps dying was simply God's just judgment upon me.

"I understand. Tell my mother I'll be right there."

My voice came out dry and hoarse, as if I'd used up all my strength for a lifetime.

This gamble had been doomed from the start. I could never compare to Siobhan—our parents loved her, and so did my husband. The only person who had ever truly cared for me, my grandmother, had passed away years ago.

Thinking of Gran brought me a moment's peace. She used to say that everyone in this world had their purpose, that even the smallest existence had meaning.

But now it seemed my purpose was simply to make others happy, then fade away quietly.

With that thought, death didn't seem so frightening anymore. At least in heaven, my loving grandmother would be waiting for me.

Instead of heading to Siobhan's welcome home dinner, I turned toward our empty house.

Call it guilt or cowardice, I no longer cared what others would say. This time, please allow me this one act of selfishness.

I stepped through the front door and sank into the old armchair in the parlor, perhaps stunned by the diagnosis, staring blankly at the dying embers in the fireplace.

Past midnight, Eamon still hadn't returned. Gran's old clock on the wall ticked away, marking time until my death.

The familiar pain began spreading from my abdomen, and I broke into a cold sweat from the agony. Through the haze, I thought I heard the sound of the door lock turning.

I steadied myself, only to realize there was nothing there. I couldn't keep thinking about Eamon. I shook my head.

Catriona, without you, Eamon could be happier.

I closed my eyes and leaned back in the chair, remembering the moments Eamon and I had shared. Though most of the time his expression remained distant and emotionless, he had been gentle and patient with me.

He would drive that old Ford to show me the most beautiful sunsets by the sea. When I accidentally cut myself on thorns, he would patiently tend to my wounds, then hold me close for comfort.

Eamon was successful, handsome—every girl in town's ideal husband. He would always be a good man, a good husband, a good son-in-law.

And I was just the villain who stole another's love. Someone covered in scabs and wounds, yet still desperately running toward him, seeking forgiveness.

But I only wanted to be loved.

Whether from pain or exhaustion, I gradually lost consciousness. When awareness returned, the sun was just beginning to rise.

The sea breeze crept through the window gaps, carrying a chill that made me shiver as I woke.

Eamon hadn't come home all night. This wasn't like him.

From our courtship through marriage, he had never stayed out all night. But now...