I was staring at the mincedmeat patties that had just emerged from the oven, their edges slightly charred, and I could hardly believe what Id heard.
You’re expired. Im filing for divorce, my husband said, pushing his plate away. The words sounded as ordinary as a warning about rising fuel prices. I stood frozen, wooden spatula in hand, while the cactus on the windowsill tilted a lone, twisted spine upward, as if confirming, Its over for you. Im fortyseven, and André and I have shared twenty years together. Our son, Antoine, has been studying in another city for a while now, and the mortgage on our tworoom flat is almost paid off. And suddenly, expired.
Everything around me seemed stuck in a blackandwhite television frame. I watched the burnt steaks with a gloomy stare, wondering, Can I still save the charred part, or is it already too late? Its odd how the mind clings to details when something truly frightening happens.
**Routine, the corrosion of a relationship**
Since spring a tense, silent atmosphere has settled at home. André returns late from work and, on weekends, buries himself in reports from his new boss. I retreat to my office life: crunching numbers, sorting piles of paperwork, and in the evenings, petting our cat, Minette. Exchanges are reduced to Pick up milk, Put money on the card, Who does the dishes tonight? A sticky fatigue has erected a high wall between us.
Our nineteenyearold son lives in a student residence far away, and we see each other rarely. Occasionally he calls to ask for money. During last summers holidays he came home, and we thought of a countryside barbecue, but it never happenedeither the weather was bad or André was too tired. I already felt we were more neighbors than spouses.
And yesterday the final verdict echoed: Youre expired.
**Catalyst and growing conflict**
The prospect of divorce had been a looming shadow for some time. A few weeks ago the kitchen sink clogged, and I called a plumber. Suddenly André declared, Thats a mans job, stay out of it. Why did he say that? He never behaved that way at night. Yet he blamed me for not waiting, as if pointing out my supposed inadequacy mattered to him.
Then there was the odd incident with our neighbor, Aunt Géraldine, who asked us in the stairwell, André, Nadine, are you going to celebrate your wedding anniversary soon? We exchanged puzzled looksour anniversary had passed a month ago, forgotten by both of us. She looked on with sympathy, already sensing our sorrow.
I didnt expect such bluntness:
A divorce? Really?
Really, André said without meeting my eyes. Im tired. This has gone on far too long.
**Trying to understand and adapt**
I spent the night on our old couch, the one where I usually watched series. Minette, sensing my mood, purred softly at my feet. I barely heard Andréhe shut himself in the bedroom. In the morning, almost automatically, I set the coffee maker and, staring at the tilted cactus in its pot, thought, The poor thing wont survive either. Its been stuck in a corner, not flowering for years. It did bloom once, long ago.
I wanted to start an honest conversation with my husband, but I lacked the strength. I went to work, keeping up appearances. At the office, stacks of gray files, colleagues idly playing Sudoku at lunch, and I couldnt focus. A single thought hammered me: Am I like an expired product?
Later that day I called my son:
Antoine, its Mom well, dad wants a divorce.
After a pause he replied:
Mom, Ive sensed a problem between you for a while. If it becomes unbearable, Ill support you, his voice calm, almost apologetic. Dont let him humiliate you, okay?
I heard his concern. On one hand hes grown, on the other he has only one family, and suddenly everything is crumbling.
**The motherinlaws intervention**
The next day my motherinlaw called herself. Usually she checks on the pigeons on our balcony, but this time she went straight to the point:
Divorce? André mentioned it a bit. How can you abandon your family at that age?!
Stammering, I answered:
Im not the one who started it.
So you didnt see it, didnt take care of him. Youre not kids anymore, Nadia. André is almost fortyeight! You should have tended to his peace, but you were too absorbed in work and reports.
I nearly explodedbeing blamed for everything, for not being feminine enough. Yet I held back; whats the point of arguing with her? She now lives in a village, spends days gardening with her younger sister and nieces grandchildren, knows our marriage only through occasional calls, and always believes the daughterinlaw is at fault.
**Talk over the kitchen table**
Finally, on Saturday we sat down as adults. He emerged from the bathroom, barely shaved and scowling, and took a seat opposite me at the kitchen table. On the wall hung an old cuckoo clock inherited from my grandmotherits bird had been silent for five years, as if time itself had stopped in our family.
I wont change my mind, André said softly, pushing his tea cup away. Im tired, Nadia. Feelings are out of the question. This flat isnt worth tying us together. You can keep living here. Im not asking for a quick sale, but I want half its value. Ill find somewhere else, maybe rent, and see what happens.
I stared at the chipped table, the faded vinyl checkered tablecloth, listening to his almost businesslike monologue. We have twenty years behind us. Sadness overwhelmed me, tears threatening, even though I felt ashamed to cry in front of him.
I understand, I replied, trying not to let my voice betray me. If its a divorce, then its a divorce.
We fell silent. A strange relief washed over me, as if a heavy backpack had been lifted. Yes, its scary to face the early forties alone, but its even scarier to stay in a situation where no one needs anyone.
**Back at my mothers**
The next morning I hurried to my mothers place. She lives in an old building with creaky elevators, a setting that has always made me uneasy. She opened the door, saw my red eyes, kissed me immediately, and led me to the kitchen. Everything was familiar: the dark cupboard filled with oldtime pots, a stack of enamel bowls, my grandmothers kitchen stool.
Maybe you can reconcile? my mother asked, pouring tea into a flowered cup from the 90s. Your father and I were once on the brink of divorce, but we held on. People of our generation stood firm.
And André I wanted to say something sensible, but I found no words.
Through the window, the peeling walls of the opposite entryway were framed by lilac bushes that always looked miserable in winter yet burst into abundant blossoms each spring. Perhaps everything can bloom again, I thought briefly, though I was already unsure about reviving what was dead between André and me.
**The cactus and its bud**
Back in our almost empty apartmentAndré had already taken some belongings and moved in with a friend, likely looking for a place closer to workI walked to the windowsill. My poor cactus leaned slightly outward. Then I noticed a tiny white bud on one of its spines, barely visible. I blinked: Am I crazy? It hasnt flowered in five years
A mixed feeling swept my heart: sorrow and a faint, delicate joy, as if nature wanted to show me that even a forgotten, gloomy cactus can surprise when the moment is right.
I turned on the radiotalk of rising utility costs and exchange rates. It was amusing that a tiny bud worried me less than those headlines. Perhaps its the small details that keep us afloat.
**Conversation with my son and new plans**
Two days later Antoine called:
Mom, Dad told me he left. Is everything okay?
Yes, I replied. Not exactly, but Im not sure how to live now. Ill have to manage the flat, work
I promise I wont fail my exams. If needed, I can come back this summer to help you move.
Thank you, son, his words warmed me. But dont neglect your studies.
Hearing his calm, caring voice, I realized things werent all black. I have an adult son ready to help, a mothereven if we disagreeand, above all, I remain myselfa person who can start anew.
**Cautious optimism**
Fifteen days passed. I took an unexpected leave to settle paperwork, deal with the division, and, most importantly, untangle my thoughts. Minette watched, amazed, as I finally cleaned the windows and repotted the cactus into a new pot. Yes, I repotted it because it had finally flowered. A small act, but it pleased me.
That morning, while checking the mail, an unexpected surge of energy hit me. I remembered that once I dreamed of learning to drive. Maybe now is the time? I could also sign up for yoga, renovate my mothers country house, perhaps repaint the old shed.
At the kitchen table, sipping strong coffee, I admired the cactuss white blossomdelicate veins like a childs decoration on an old Christmas tree. I struggled to keep a smile in. I never imagined such a tiny detail could inject so much hope.
There will still be hard moments: the divorce, notary procedures, splitting the flat, my motherinlaws sideways glances, explanations to friends and family. But I am no longer expired. I am simply someone emerging from an endless winter toward a new spring.
A few days later, Aunt Géraldine caught me by the elevator:
Nadine, where are you off to so early?
I signed up for driving lessons, I said with a smile.
Good, she replied, eyes twinkling, especially, dont be afraid of yourself.
And here I am, walking across the courtyard toward the bus stop, listing the days tasks. Above, the sky is gray, a fine rain falls, yet inside me a bird singssomething alive, ready for change. Maybe this is my new bloom. It isnt a flamboyant rose, but its authentic, like the white flower of an old cactus finally opening.
If a cactus can do itwhy cant I start over?
How a Husband’s Comment on Expiry Dates Changed the Life of a 47-Year-Old Woman.
