I stared at the hamburger patties emerging from the oven, their edges charred, and I could barely register what my husband just said.
Youre expired. Im filing for divorce, André announced, pushing his plate away. His tone was as casual as if he were mentioning yet another gas price hike. I froze, wooden spatula in hand. The cactus perched on the windowsill tilted a wilted spine upward, as if to echo, 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 some time, and the mortgage on our tworoom flat is almost paid off. And suddenly, Im expired.
Everything around me seemed frozen like a blackandwhite frame from an old TV show. I watched the burnt meat with a grim stare, wondering, Can I still salvage the charred part, or is it already too late? Its odd how the mind clings to minutiae when something truly terrifying occurs.
**Routine and the erosion of a relationship**
Since spring, a tense silence has settled over the house. André comes home late from work, and on weekends he drowns himself in reports from his new boss. I retreat to my office life: balancing the books, sorting piles of paperwork, and in the evenings, soothing our cat, Minette. Conversations are reduced to Get milk, Put money on the card, Who does the dishes? A sticky fatigue has built a high wall between us.
Our nineteenyearold son lives in a student residence far away, and we rarely see each other. Occasionally he calls asking for money. During last summers holidays he returned, and we all talked about a countryside barbecue, but it never materializedeither the weather was bad or André was too tired. I had already felt we were more neighbors than spouses.
Yesterday, the final verdict echoed: Youre expired.
**Catalyst and growing conflict**
The prospect of divorce had been a looming shadow for a while. A few weeks ago the kitchen sink clogged, and when I called a plumber, André blurted, This is a mans job, stay out of it. He never does anything like that in the evenings, yet he blamed me for not waiting, as if it mattered to prove my inadequacy.
Then an odd incident: our neighbor, Aunt Géraldine, asked us in the stairwell, André, Nadine, are you planning to celebrate your wedding anniversary soon? We exchanged puzzled looksour anniversary had passed a month ago, both of us had forgotten. She looked on with sympathy, already sensing our sorrow.
I did not expect such bluntness:
Divorce? Really?
Really, André replied without meeting my eyes. Im tired. This has gone on too long.
**Attempting to understand and adapt**
I spent the night on our old couch, the one where I usually bingewatch series. Minette, sensing my mood, purred softly at my feet. André was barely audiblehe locked himself in the bedroom. In the morning, almost automatically, I set the coffee pot brewing and, glancing at the tilted cactus in its pot, thought, The poor thing wont survive either. Its been stuck in a corner, flowerless for years. It did bloom once, long ago.
I wanted to start an honest conversation with André, but I lacked the strength. I went to work, keeping up appearances. At the office, stacks of gray files piled up, colleagues idly solving Sudoku at lunch, and I couldnt focus. A thought kept hammering me: Am I like an expired product?
I called my son later that day:
Antoine, dad said he wants a divorce.
After a pause, he answered:
Mom, Ive sensed something was wrong for a while. If it becomes unbearable, Ill support you, his voice calm, almost apologetic. Dont let yourself be humiliated, okay?
His concern hit me. Hes grown, yet his whole family is suddenly crumbling.
**Motherinlaws intervention**
The next day my motherinlaw called. Usually she checks on the pigeons on our balcony, but this time she went straight to the point:
Divorce? André told me a bit. How can you abandon your family at your age?!
I stammered:
Im not the one who started this.
So you didnt see it, didnt take care of him. Youre not children anymore, Nadia. André is almost fortyeight! You should have guarded his peace, but you were too absorbed by work and reports.
I almost exploded, feeling blamed for everything, for not being feminine enough. I held back: arguing with her would change nothing. She now lives in a village, spends days gardening with her younger sister and nieces grandchildren, knows our marriage only through occasional phone calls, and still insists the daughterinlaw is at fault.
**The kitchentable conversation**
On Saturday we finally talked like adults. He emerged from the bathroom, poorly shaved and scowling, and sat opposite me at the kitchen table. Behind us, the old cuckoo clock inherited from my grandmother had been silent for five years, a symbol that time seemed to have stopped in our household.
I wont change my mind, André said softly, pushing his tea cup away. Im tired, Nadia. Feelings are irrelevant now. This apartment isnt worth tying us together. You can stay here. Im not asking for a quick sale, but I want half its value. Ill find somewhere else to live, maybe rent, and see what happens.
I stared at the chipped table, the faded checkered vinyl tablecloth, and listened to his almost businesslike monologue. After twenty years together, sadness overwhelmed me to the point of tears, 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 divorce, then its divorce.
We fell silent. A strange relief washed over me, as if a heavy backpack had been taken off. Yes, facing my forties alone is scary, but living in a relationship where neither needs the other is even scarier.
**Returning to my mother**
The next day I went to my mothers place. She lives in an old building with squeaky elevators, a setting that always made me uneasy. She opened the door, saw my reddened eyes, kissed me, and led me to the kitchen. Everything felt familiar: the dark pantry filled with vintage pots, a stack of enamel bowls, my grandmothers kitchen stool.
Maybe you can reconcile? my mother asked, pouring tea into a floral 1990s cup. Your father and I were once two steps from divorce, but we held on. Our generation survived.
And André I began to say something sensible, but words escaped me.
Through the window, the peeling walls of the opposite building were draped in lilac 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 doubtful about reviving what was dead between André and me.
**The cactus and its bud**
Back in our nearly empty apartmentAndré had already taken some belongings and moved in with a friend, probably to be closer to workI walked to the windowsill. My poor cactus leaned outward, and suddenly 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 surged: sorrow and a faint, delicate joy, as if nature wanted to show me that even a forgotten, morose cactus can surprise when the moment is right.
I turned on the radio; the news talked about rising utility prices and exchange rates. It was amusing that those headlines worried me less than a little bud. Perhaps its the tiny details that keep us afloat.
**Talk with my son and new plans**
Two days later Antoine called:
Mom, dad said hes leaving. Is everything okay?
Yes, I replied, well, not exactly, but Im not sure how to live now. Ill have to manage the apartment, my job
I promise I wont fail my exams. If you need help moving during the summer, I can come back.
Thank you, son, his words warmed me. But dont neglect your studies.
His calm, caring voice reminded me that life isnt all darkness. I have an adult son ready to help, a mother even if we clash, and, most importantly, I remain myselfa person capable of starting over.
**Cautious optimism**
Fifteen days passed. I took unexpected leave to sort paperwork, handle the division, and organize my thoughts. Minette watched bewildered as I finally cleaned the windows and repotted the cactus into a new pot. Yes, I decided to replant it because it had finally bloomed. A small act, but it pleased me.
One morning, checking the mail, an unexpected surge of energy hit me. I remembered my old dream of learning to drive. Maybe now is the time? I could also enroll in yoga, renovate my mothers country house, maybe repaint the old shed.
Sipping strong coffee in the kitchen, I admired the cactuss white flowerdelicately veined, reminiscent of a childs ornament on an old Christmas tree. I struggled to keep a smile from spreading. I never imagined such a tiny detail could inspire so much hope.
There will still be hard moments: divorce proceedings, notary work, splitting the flat, my motherinlaws sideways glances, explanations to friends and family. But I am no longer expired. Im simply someone emerging from an endless winter toward a new spring.
A few days later, Aunt Géraldine caught me by the elevator:
Nadine, why are you out so early?
I signed up for driving lessons, I replied with a smile.
Good for you, she said, eyes twinkling mischievously, and dont be afraid of yourself.
Now Im crossing the courtyard toward the bus stop, listing todays tasks. Above, the sky is gray, a light drizzle falls, yet inside me a bird singssomething alive, ready for change. Perhaps this is my new bloom. It isnt a flamboyant rose, but its genuine, like the white flower of an old cactus finally opening.
If the cactus could do it, why cant I start over?
How a Husband’s Quip About Expiry Dates Changed the Life of a 47-Year-Old Woman.
