You Are My Destiny.

Catherine Pov:

"Hello?" I answered, my voice hesitant, as I picked up the phone that had been ringing incessantly for the past few minutes. I checked the caller ID, but it was unknown, which only added to my growing unease.

"Hello, this is St. George Hospital. Is this Mrs. Mike?" a gentle female voice asked, her tone laced with a hint of urgency.

My heart skipped a beat as I replied, "Yes, how can I be of help?" My mind raced with worst-case scenarios, but I tried to push them aside, hoping for a more benign explanation.

But the nurse's next words shattered my hopes. "There was an accident at the roundabout near our emergency center, and a man was found dead on the scene. We found your number on his phone, and we need you to confirm his identity." Her words hung in the air like a challenge, forcing me to confront the unthinkable.

My world began to spin out of control as I struggled to process the news. Mike, my loving husband, my rock, my everything – could he really be gone? I felt like I was drowning in a sea of uncertainty, desperate for a lifeline to cling to.

I was frozen in silence, my mind reeling with shock and disbelief. The nurse's voice broke through the fog, "Hello, are you there?" I managed to stammer, "Alright, I'll be there," though my words felt like a distant echo.

As I arrived at the morgue, the door creaked open, and a tray rolled out, bearing a lifeless body. The nurse gently unwrapped the wrapper, revealing Mike's face. I felt a cold shiver run down my spine as I gazed upon his peaceful expression. His hair was still neatly brushed, his eyes closed as if in a deep slumber.

"Is this your husband?" the nurse asked, her voice soft and gentle.

I nodded, my voice barely above a whisper, "Yes, this is Mike." I couldn't tear my eyes away from his lifeless body, laid out on the cold metal tray. He looked serene, as if he were merely sleeping, not gone forever. The thought pierced my heart like a dagger, leaving me breathless and bereft.

This was the first time I'd seen Mike sleep so soundly, so peacefully. Little did I know, it would be the last time I'd see him at all.

Mike always had a habit of sleeping with one eye open, as if he was always waiting for me to be near. Whenever I stood by his side as he slumbered, he would instinctively reach out and grasp my hand, as if he knew I was there, watching over him. It was a gentle gesture, one that filled my heart with love and warmth.

Just days before, he had shared his excitement with me about the upcoming Olympic seminar, where he would finally unveil his groundbreaking new theory – the culmination of five years of tireless work. He had been bursting with pride and anticipation, his eyes shining with a passion that was infectious. "I'll launch it tomorrow," he had said, his voice full of conviction.

But fate had other plans. Instead of returning to me with tales of triumph and success, Mike was brought back to me in a pool of blood, his lifeless body a stark reminder of the fragility of life. The contrast between his vibrant dreams and his brutal end was a cruel irony, one that left me reeling in shock and grief.

The funeral proceedings unfolded with a sense of urgency, as if time itself was grappling with the untimely loss of a life barely halfway lived. Mike's passing at 40 years old seemed a cruel aberration, a stark reminder of the fragility of life. The church we had once worshiped together now served as the somber backdrop for his final farewell. His mother and sister were there, their faces etched with grief, as we bid our last goodbyes.

As I returned home after the burial, the silence felt oppressive, punctuated only by the echoes of memories we had created together. Our son, a constant reminder of Mike's presence, seemed a bittersweet comfort now. Everything still felt like a dream, a surreal landscape I couldn't awaken from. The harsh reality of Mike's absence felt like a constant, gnawing ache.

I wandered into his reading room, a space that still bore the imprint of his presence. His chair sat, untouched, just as he had left it. His desk, once a canvas for his brilliant calculations, now lay cluttered with the remnants of his unfinished work. The rough sheets, once a testament to his tireless pursuit of knowledge, now seemed a poignant reminder of the projects he would never complete, the dreams he would never fulfill. The room seemed frozen in time, a bittersweet tribute to the life we had shared, and the future we would never have.

Tears streamed down my face as I remembered Mike's tireless efforts to prove the law of uncertainty. He had dedicated himself to his work, pouring over equations and theories late into the night, driven by a passion to build upon the foundations laid by Isaac Newton. His dream was to make a groundbreaking discovery, one that would change the face of science forever.

But now, he was gone, leaving behind only his unfinished work and the memories of his unwavering dedication. I wept for the potential that would never be realized, for the brilliance that had been extinguished far too soon. The pain of his loss felt like a weight crushing my chest, making it hard to breathe.

I cried out for Mike, for the partner and friend who had been taken from me. I longed to see him again, to tell him how much I appreciated his genius and his love. But deep down, I knew it was a futile wish. Mike was gone, and I was left to face the darkness alone. The silence was deafening, and my tears fell like rain, a bitter reminder of my sorrow.

As the days went by, a steady stream of visitors came to offer their condolences and support. My parents-in-law were among them, and they expressed their concern for my well-being, especially since I was now a single mother.

"We're taking Gift with us," my mother-in-law said, her voice laced with a mix of kindness and firmness.

I was taken aback, my mind racing with questions. "Why? How can you even suggest that?" I asked, trying to keep my emotions in check.

My mother-in-law explained that they had discussed it with Mike's father and thought it would be best for me, given my workload and the challenges of raising a child alone.

"It will be too much for you to handle, and we want to help," she said.

But I was adamant. "No, I can't let you take Gift away from me. She's all I have left of Mike, and I need her by my side. We're good together, and I can cope with her help. Please, don't take her away from me," I pleaded, my voice cracking with emotion.

I knew I had to be strong for Gift, and I couldn't bear the thought of losing her too. She was my connection to Mike, and I was determined to keep her close, no matter what challenges lay ahead.

My mother even suggested that I should consider remarrying, citing my relatively young age of 35 and Gift's tender age of 4. But the truth is, I had no desire to marry again. My heart belonged to Mike, and I couldn't imagine sharing my life with anyone else. Instead, I chose to devote myself to raising Gift and fulfilling her father's dreams for her.

I returned to my job as a school teacher and threw myself into my work, finding solace in the routine and structure it provided. I was determined to create a stable and loving home for Gift, and I was proud of the progress we had made together.

But life had other plans. One day, while working in my office, I suddenly collapsed. I was rushed to the hospital and regained consciousness to find myself surrounded by doctors and nurses. The diagnosis was devastating: I had a brain tumor, and my time was running out.

"You have glioblastoma," the doctor said, his voice firm but gentle.I stared at him, unsure what to make of the term. I had noticed some symptoms - constant headaches, difficulty sleeping, and occasional memory lapses - but I had no idea what they meant.

The doctor saw my confusion and took a deep breath. "Glioblastoma multiforme is a type of cancerous brain tumor that forms from the glia cells in the brain. These cells normally protect and support the brain, but in this case, they've turned malignant."

I felt like I'd been punched in the gut. Cancer? Brain tumor? The words swirled in my head, refusing to make sense.

"Is it life-threatening?" I asked the doctor, noticing the sad look in his eyes.

"Yes, generally glioblastoma is life-threatening. It's an aggressive form of cancer, and the expected outcome varies from person to person depending on factors like age, overall health, and how far the cancer has spread," he explained.

"Can it be cured?" I asked, searching his face for a glimmer of hope.

The doctor hesitated, and I could read the reluctance in his expression. "Up till now, there's no proven medical solution for it. Considering the level it has spread, I'm afraid your condition has really worsened. You can't be operated on as the brain veins have become too thin from the cancer spread, making it too difficult."

"Then what's the end result? Death?" I said, my voice barely above a whisper.

The doctor removed his spectacles, and his eyes seemed to cloud over. "How much time do I have left to live?" I asked, my voice cracking.

"It's impossible to give a definite answer or predict exactly how long a person may live, but in general, the average surviving time is around three months without treatment," he said gently.

My world crumbled with the doctor's words. I had only three months left to live. I stood up, feeling like I was walking through a nightmare, and turned to leave.

"Take this drug," the doctor said, handing me a prescription. "It will help relieve the pain, and be careful out there. You can't be alone, as you will be experiencing hallucinations and frequent memory loss."

I took the prescription, my mind reeling with the thought of the limited time I had left. Three months. That's all I had. I left the doctor's office, feeling like I was walking towards my final goodbye.