I watched the mincedbeef patties emerging from the oven, their edges charred, and I could hardly believe my ears.
You’re expired. I’m filing for divorce, my husband said, pushing his plate away. He said it as casually as if he were announcing yet another rise in fuel prices. I froze, wooden spatula in hand. The cactus on the windowsill pointed a twisted thorn upward, as if confirming, Its over for you. Im fortyseven, and André and I have spent twenty years together. Our son, Antoine, has been studying in another city for a long time, and the mortgage on our tworoom flat is almost paid off. And suddenly, expired.
Everything around me seemed frozen like a blackandwhite frame from an old TV show. I stared at the burnt steaks, wondering, Can I still salvage the charred part, or is it already too late? Its odd how the mind latches onto details when something truly frightening happens.
**Routine, 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 immerses himself in the reports a new boss has given him. I, meanwhile, bury myself in office life: I crunch the numbers, sort piles of paperwork, and in the evenings I pet our cat, Minette. Conversations are scarcejust a Pick up milk, Put money on the card, Who does the dishes today? A sticky fatigue has built a high wall between us.
Our nineteenyearold son, Antoine, lives in a student residence in another city, and we see each other rarely. Occasionally he calls asking for money. During the summer break he returned home, and we all thought about organizing a countryside barbecue, but it never materializedeither the weather was bad or André was too tired. I had already felt we were more neighbours than spouses.
And yesterday, I heard the final verdict: Youre expired.
**Catalyst and a growing conflict**
The prospect of divorce had been a looming shadow for a while. A few weeks ago the kitchen sink clogged, and I called a plumber. Suddenly André said, Thats a mans job, stay out of it. Why did he say that? He never did anything like that in the evenings. Yet he blamed me for not waiting, as if it mattered to him to point out my incompetence.
Then there was that strange incident: our neighbour, Aunt Géraldine, asked us in the stairwell, André, Nadine, are you going to celebrate your wedding anniversary soon? My husband and I exchanged a puzzled lookthe anniversary had passed a month ago. Wed both forgotten. The neighbour looked on with compassion, already seeming to understand our sorrow.
But I didnt expect such bluntness:
A divorce? Really?
Really, André said without meeting my eyes. Im tired. This has gone on too long.
**Trying to understand and adapt**
I spent the night on our old couch, the one where I usually watch my series. Minette, sensing my mood, purred softly at my feet. I barely heard Andréhe had locked himself in the bedroom. In the morning, almost automatically, I set the coffee maker going and, staring at the tipped pot holding the cactus, thought, The poor thing wont survive either. Its stuck in a corner, hasnt flowered in years. It did bloom once, long ago.
I wanted to start an honest talk with my husband, but I lacked the strength. I went to work, trying to keep up appearances. At the office, piles of gray files, colleagues distractedly playing Sudoku at lunch and I couldnt focus. A thought hammered my mind: Am I like an expired product?
I called my son later that day:
Antoine, listen Dad wants a divorce.
After a pause he replied:
Mom, Ive sensed something was wrong for a while. If it ever becomes unbearable, Ill support you, his voice was calm, almost apologetic. Dont let yourself be humiliated, okay?
I heard his concern. On one hand hes grown, on the other he has only one family, and suddenly everything is collapsing.
**My motherinlaws intervention**
The next day my motherinlaw called herself. Usually she asks about 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?!
I stammered:
Im not the one who started it.
So you didnt see it, didnt take care of him. Youre not kids anymore, Nadia. Andrés almost fortyeight! You should have looked after his peace, but you were too absorbed in work, in reports.
I almost burstso I was to blame for everything, not feminine enough. Yet I held back: whats the point of arguing with her? She now lives in a village, spends her days gardening with her younger sister and her nieces grandchildren. She knows our relationship only from occasional phone calls, but she still believes its the daughterinlaws fault.
**Conversation over the kitchen table**
On Saturday we finally talked like adults. He emerged from the bathroom, poorly shaved and frowning, and sat opposite me at the kitchen table. On the wall hung an old cuckoo clock inherited from my grandmotherthe cuckoo had been silent for five years. Symbolically, time seemed to have stopped for the family as well.
I wont change my mind, André said softly, pushing his tea cup away. Im tired, Nadia. Feelings are no longer relevant. This flat isnt worth tying us together. You can stay here. Im not asking for a quick sale, but I want half its value. Ill find something else for myself, maybe rent a place, and see what happens.
I stared at the cracked table, the faded checkered vinyl tablecloth, and listened to his almost businesslike monologue. It felt like two partners reviewing a financial statement. Weve spent twenty years together. Sadness flooded me to the point of tears, even though I was ashamed to cry in front of him.
I understand, I replied, trying not to betray my voice. Well, if its a divorce, then its a divorce.
Silence settled. A strange relief washed over me, as if a heavy backpack had been lifted. Yes, its scary to be alone on the brink of forty, but its even scarier to stay in a situation where nobody needs anyone.
**Returning to my mother**
The next day I went to my mothers house. She lives in an old building with creaky elevators, which 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 oldfashioned pots, a stack of glazed bowls, my grandmothers kitchen stool.
Maybe you can reconcile? my mother asked, pouring tea into a floral cup from the 90s. With your father we came close to divorce once. But we held on; our generation stayed strong.
And André I wanted to say something sensible, but I realized I had no words.
Outside, the peeling walls of the opposite entrance were framed by a lilac that always looked forlorn in winter, yet burst into abundant flowers each spring. Maybe everything can bloom again, I thought briefly. Yet 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 a few things and moved in with a friend, probably seeking a place nearer his workI walked around and stopped at the windowsill: my poor cactus leaned slightly outward. Then I noticed a tiny white bud on one of the stems, barely visible. I blinked: Am I crazy? It hasnt flowered in five years
A mixed feeling swept through me: sorrow and a faint, delicate joy, as if nature wanted to show that even a forgotten, morbid cactus can surprise when the moment is right.
I turned on the radiotalk of rising utility prices and exchange rates. It was funny that this worried me less than a tiny bud. Perhaps its the small details that keep us afloat.
**Talk 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 apartment, 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 completely black. I have an adult son ready to help. I have a mother, even if we disagree. Most of all, I remain myselfa person who can start over.
**Cautious optimism**
Fifteen days passed. I took an unexpected leave to sort paperwork, handle the division, and, most importantly, clear my mind. Minette watched with curiosity as I finally cleaned the windows and repotted the cactus into a new pot. Yes, I decided to replant it because it had bloomed. A small gesture, but it pleased me.
The next morning, checking the mail, a wave of unexpected energy hit me. I remembered once dreaming of learning to drive. Maybe now is the time? Enroll in yoga classes. Renovate my mothers country house, perhaps repaint the old shed.
In the kitchen, sipping strong coffee, I admired the cactuss white flowerdelicately veined, like a childs ornament on an old Christmas tree. I struggled to keep a smile. I never imagined such a tiny detail could spark so much hope.
There will still be hard moments: the divorce, notary paperwork, splitting the flat, my motherinlaws sideways glances, explanations to friends and family. But I am no longer expired. I am simply someone emerging from a long winter toward a new spring.
A few days later my neighbour, Aunt Géraldine, called me by the elevator:
Nadine, where are you going so early this morning?
I signed up for driving lessons, I said with a smile.
Good, she replied, her eyes sparkling mischievously, especially, dont be afraid of yourself.
And here I am, crossing the courtyard toward the bus stop, listing the days tasks. Above, the sky is gray, a fine rain falls, but inside me a bird singssomething alive, ready for change. Perhaps this is my new bloom. It may not be a flamboyant rose, but its authentic, like the white flower of an old cactus finally opening.
If the cactus could do itwhy cant I start again?
