The comment about the expiration date turned a 47yearold womans life upside down.
I was watching the minced steaks come out of the oven, the edges slightly charred, and I could barely believe my ears.
Youre expired. I want a divorce, my husband said, pushing his plate away. The words landed as casually as a routine announcement about rising fuel prices. I froze, a wooden spatula still in my hand. The cactus on the windowsill drooped a twisted spine upward, as if to confirm, 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 while, and the mortgage on our tworoom flat is almost paid off. And now, in an instant, expired.
Everything around me seemed frozen like a blackandwhite frame from an old TV show. I stared at the burnt meat, wondering, Can I still cut away the charred part, or is it already too late? Its odd how the mind latches onto details when something truly frightening happens.
**Routine, the corrosion of a relationship**
Since spring, a tense silence had settled over the house. André came home late from work, and on weekends he buried himself in reports his new boss assigned. I retreated to officelike tasks: balancing the books, sorting piles of paperwork, and in the evenings, petting our cat, Minette. Conversations were reduced to Pick up milk, Add money to the card, Who does the dishes today? A sticky fatigue had built a high wall between us.
Antoine, nineteen, lives in a student residence in another city, and we see each other only rarely. Occasionally he calls to ask for cash. During last summers holidays he returned home; we thought about a countryside barbecue, but it never materializedeither the weather was bad or André was too tired. Id already felt we were more neighbors than spouses.
And yesterday, the final verdict rang out: Youre expired.
**Catalyst and growing conflict**
The prospect of divorce had been a looming shadow for some time. A few weeks earlier the kitchen sink clogged, and I called a plumber. André suddenly 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 supposed incapacity.
Then a strange incident occurred: our neighbour, Aunt Géraldine, asked us in the stairwell, André, Nadine, are you going to celebrate your wedding anniversary soon? Both of us looked puzzledour anniversary had passed a month ago, forgotten by both. She stared with sympathy, already seeming to understand our misfortune.
I didnt expect such bluntness:
A divorce? Really?
Really, André 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 watched series. Minette, sensing my mood, purred softly at my feet. André was silent, locked away in the bedroom. In the morning, almost automatically, I set the coffee pot brewing and, looking at the tilted cactus in its pot, thought, The poor thing wont make it either. Its been stuck in that corner, not flowering 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, trying to keep up appearances. At the office, piles of gray files, colleagues distractedly playing Sudoku at lunch I couldnt focus. A thought kept hammering me: Am I like an expired product?
Later that day I called my son:
Antoine, its Mom dad has 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 calm, almost apologetic. Dont let yourself be humiliated, okay?
I heard his concern. Hes grown, yet he still has only one family, and suddenly everything is collapsing.
**Motherinlaws intervention**
The next day my motherinlaw called herself. Usually she inquires about the pigeons on our balcony, but this time she went straight to the point:
Divorce? André mentioned it. 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, didnt take care of him. Youre no longer children, Nadine. André is almost fortyeight! You should have protected his peace, but you were too absorbed by work and reports.
I almost exploded, feeling blamed for all the ills, labeled insufficiently feminine. 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 nieces grandchildren. She knows our marriage only through occasional phone calls and still insists the daughterinlaw is at fault.
**Conversation over the kitchen table**
On Saturday we finally talked like adults. He emerged from the bathroom, poorly shaved and scowling, and sat opposite me at the kitchen table. On the wall hung an old cuckoo clock inherited from my grandmother; the cuckoo 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 irrelevant now. This apartment isnt worth staying together for. You can stay here. Im not demanding a quick sale, but I want half its value. Ill find something else for myself, maybe rent another place, and 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. Yet we have twenty years behind us. Sadness overwhelmed me, bringing tears, even though he seemed embarrassed by my crying.
I understand, I replied, trying not to let my voice betray me. 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 scarier to live in a situation where no one needs anyone.
**Returning to my mother**
The next morning I went to my mothers place. She lives in an old building with squeaky elevators, which always made me uneasy. She opened the door, saw my red eyes, kissed me right away, and led me to the kitchen. Everything felt familiar: the dark pantry stocked with vintage pots, a stack of glazed bowls, my grandmothers kitchen stool.
Maybe you can reconcile? my mother asked, pouring tea into a floral 90s cup. Your father and I almost divorced, but we held on. Our generation stayed together.
And André I wanted to say something sensible, but I found no words.
Through the window, the peeling walls of the opposite building were framed by a lilac bush that always looked forlorn in winter but burst into abundant blossoms each spring. Maybe everything can bloom again, I thought briefly, though I was already unsure about reviving what had died 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 seeking a place closer to workI walked to the windowsill. My poor cactus leaned slightly outward, and then I spotted 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: sorrow and a faint, delicate joy, as if nature were telling me that even a forgotten, gloomy 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 I worried less about those numbers than about a little flower bud. Perhaps its these small details that keep us afloat.
**Talk with my son and new plans**
Two days later Antoine called:
Mom, dad said hes 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 you need help, I can come back during the summer holidays to help you move.
Thank you, son, his voice warmed my heart. But dont neglect your studies.
Hearing his calm, caring tone made me realize that things werent entirely black. I have an adult son ready to help, a mothereven if we disagreeand, most importantly, 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, above all, clear my mind. Minette watched in amazement as I finally cleaned the windows and repotted the cactus into a new pot. Yes, I moved it because it had finally flowered. A small gesture, but it pleased me.
The next morning, checking the mail, a sudden surge of energy hit me. I remembered dreaming of learning to drive years ago. Maybe now is the time? I could sign up for yoga, 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 ornament 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 proceedings, notarial paperwork, the apartment split, my motherinlaws sideways looks, 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 stopped me by the elevator:
Nadine, why are you out so early?
Ive enrolled in driving lessons, I replied with a smile.
Thats great, she said, eyes twinkling mischievously, and dont be afraid of yourself.
There I was, crossing the courtyard toward the bus stop, reciting todays todo list. Above, the sky was gray, a fine rain fell, yet inside me a bird sangsomething alive, ready for change. Perhaps this is my new bloom. It isnt a flamboyant rose, but its authentic, like the white flower of an old cactus finally opening.
If the cactus can do it, why couldnt I start anew?
How a Comment from Her Husband About the Expiry Date Changed the Life of a 47-Year-Old Woman.
