At the wedding, my ex-husband saw my suicide note.

The day I was diagnosed with late-stage stomach cancer, my husband was lighting fireworks for another woman.

When reporters blocked me outside the hospital ward, I forced a smile.

“Don’t misunderstand,” I said calmly. “We’re doing fine. She’s just a relative.”

That night, I left the hospital alone and went home.

Under the fireworks, I saw him feeding her cake, fixing her hair, holding her like a priceless treasure.

He scolded me for ruining the mood. She hid behind him, crying softly.

I smiled and spoke quietly.

“I just wanted to remind you—today is my birthday.”