I was watching the mincedbeef patties come out of the oven, their edges a little charred, and I could hardly believe what I heard.
You’re expired. Im filing for divorce, my husband said, pushing his plate away. It sounded as casually as if he were announcing another rise in gasoline prices. I froze, a wooden spatula still in my hand. The cactus on the windowsill tilted a wilted spine upward, as if to confirm, 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, 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 burgers, wondering, Can I still rescue 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, drowns himself in reports from his new boss. I retreat to my office life: balancing the books, sorting endless piles of paperwork, and in the evenings, petting our cat, Minette. Our conversations are reduced to Get some milk, Put money on the card, Who does the dishes today? A sticky fatigue has erected a high wall between us.
Antoine, our nineteenyearold, lives in a student residence in another city, and we see each other rarely. Occasionally he calls asking for money. During last summers holidays he returned home, and we all thought about a countryside barbecue, but it never materializedeither the weather turned bad or André was too tired. Id already felt we were more neighbors than spouses.
And yesterday, I heard the final verdict: Youre expired.
**Catalyst and growing conflict**
The idea of divorce has loomed for some time. 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 would he say that? He never did anything like that in the evenings. Yet he blamed me for not waiting, as if pointing at my supposed inadequacy mattered to him.
Then an odd incident: our neighbor, Aunt Géraldine, asked us in the stairwell, André, Nadine, are you going to celebrate your wedding anniversary soon? My husband and I exchanged puzzled looksthe anniversary had passed a month ago. Wed both forgotten. She looked at us with sympathy, already sensing our misery.
I didnt expect such bluntness:
Divorce? Really?
Really, he replied 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 started the coffee, and as I stared at the tilted cactus pot, I thought, The poor thing wont survive either. Its been stuck in a corner, not blooming for years. It once flowered, but only once.
I wanted to have 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 grey files, colleagues idly 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, its me well, dad decided to ask for a divorce.
After a pause, he answered:
Mom, Ive felt something was wrong between you for a while. If it becomes unbearable, Ill support you, his voice was calm, almost sorrowful. Dont let yourself be humiliated, okay?
I felt his concern. On one hand, hes grown, but on the other, his whole family is collapsing at once.
**Motherinlaws intervention**
The next day my motherinlaw called herself. Usually she inquires about the pigeons on our balcony, but this time she jumped straight to the topic:
Divorce? André mentioned something. How can you abandon your family at that age?!
I stammered, unable to answer:
Im not the one who started it.
So you didnt see it, you didnt take care of him. Youre no longer children, Nadia. Soon youll be fortyeight, André! You should have tended to his peace, but you were too absorbed by work and reports.
I almost exploded: apparently I was the root of all the problems, not feminine enough. I swallowed it; arguing would achieve nothing. She now lives in a village, spends her days gardening with her younger sister and nieces grandchildren, knows our marriage only from occasional phone calls, and still blames the daughterinlaw.
**Conversation over the kitchen table**
On Saturday we finally talked like adults. He emerged from the bathroom, poorly shaven and scowling, and sat 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. Symbolically, time seemed to have stopped for the family too.
I wont change my mind, he said softly, pushing his tea cup away. Im tired, Nadia. Feelings are out of the question. This apartment isnt worth binding us. You can stay here. Im not demanding a quick sale, but I want half its value. Ill find something else for myselfmaybe rent a place, then see what happens.
I stared at the chipped table, the faded checkered vinyl tablecloth, listening to his almost businesslike monologue. It felt like two partners reviewing a financial statement. We have twenty years behind us. Sadness flooded me to the point of tears, even though he seemed ashamed of my crying.
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 lifted. Yes, facing the early forties alone is frightening, but its even scarier to stay in a situation where no one needs anyone.
**Returning to my mother**
The next day I hurried to my mothers place. She lives in an old building with creaky elevators, which always makes me uneasy. She opened the door, saw my reddened eyes, kissed me immediately, and led me to the kitchen. Everything was familiar: a dark cupboard full of oldstyle pots, a stack of enamel bowls, Grandmothers kitchen stool.
Maybe you can reconcile? my mother asked, pouring tea into a floral cup from the 90s. Your father and I were once a hairs breadth from divorce, but we held on. Our generation stuck it out.
And André I wanted to say something sensible, but words failed me.
Through the window, the peeling walls of the opposite building were framed by lilacs that look miserable in winter yet burst into abundant bloom each spring. Perhaps everything can blossom 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 nearly empty apartmentAndré had already taken some belongings and moved in with a friend, likely seeking a home closer to workI paced the rooms and stopped at 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 through me: sadness and a faint, delicate joy, as if nature wanted to show that even a forgotten, morose cactus can surprise when the moment is right.
I turned on the radiotalk of rising utility prices and exchange rates. It amused me that this bothered me less than a tiny bud. Perhaps its those 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. Well, 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 for the summer holidays to help you move.
Thank you, my son, his words warmed me. But dont neglect your studies.
Hearing his calm, caring voice, I realized everything wasnt black. I have an adult son willing to help. I have a mother, even if we disagree. Most of all, I am still mea 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 thoughts. Minette watched amazed as I finally cleaned the windows and repotted the cactus into a new pot. Yes, I decided to replant it because it had finally flowered. A small act, but it pleased me.
That morning, checking the mail, an unexpected surge of 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.
Sipping strong coffee in the kitchen, I stared at the cactuss white blossomdelicately veined, like a childs decoration on an old Christmas tree. I struggled to keep a smile. 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 a person emerging from a long winter toward a new spring.
A few days later, Aunt Géraldine stopped me by the elevator:
Nadine, why are you out so early this morning?
I signed up for driving lessons, I said with a smile.
Good, she replied, eyes twinkling mischievously, and dont be afraid of yourself.
And here I am, crossing the courtyard toward the bus stop, listing todays tasks. Above, the sky is gray, a light rain falls, but inside me a bird singssomething alive, ready for change. Maybe thats my new bloom. It isnt a flamboyant rose, but its genuine, like the white flower of an old cactus finally opening.
If the cactus can do itwhy cant I start anew?
