I will no longer live another persons life
Marguerine arrived home late that night. The lights of Paris already glittered beyond the windows. She stood in the doorway, a bag in hand, and said with an unexpected firmness:
Im filing for divorce. You may keep the flat, but youll reimburse my share. I dont need it. Im leaving.
Victor, her husband, slumped back in his chair, taken aback.
Where are you going? he asked, blinking in confusion.
Thats none of your business, she replied calmly, pulling a suitcase from the wardrobe. Ill stay a while at my friends place in the countryside. Then well see.
He couldnt grasp what was happening. She, however, had already made her decision.
Three days earlier, the doctor, while reviewing her results, had softly told her:
In your case the outlook is poor. Eight months at most with treatment maybe a year.
She left the office feeling as if she were walking through a fog. The city buzzed, the sun shone. In her mind a single sentence repeated: Eight months I wont even get to celebrate my birthday
On a bench in the Luxembourg Gardens, an elderly man sat down beside her. He stayed quiet for a moment, enjoying the autumn sunshine, then spoke without warning:
I want my last day to be sunny. I dont expect much, but a ray of sunlight is a gift. Dont you think?
Id have found it if I knew it was my final year, she whispered.
Then stop postponing everything. Ive had so many laters I could fill a lifetime with them. It never worked.
Marguerine listened and understood her entire life had been for others. A job she despised, kept only for stability. A husband who had become a stranger over ten yearsinfidelities, coldness, indifference. A daughter who called solely to ask for money or a favor. And for herself, nothing: no shoes, no holidays, not even a coffee on a terrace, alone.
She had saved everything for later. Now that later might never arrive. Something inside her snapped. She went home and, for the first time in her life, said no to everything, all at once.
The next day Marguerine requested leave, withdrew her savings, and left. Her husband tried to make sense of it, her daughter called demanding she answered each with calm resolve: No.
In her friends country house everything was quiet. Wrapped in a blanket, she thought: is this really how it will end? She hadnt lived; she had merely survivedfor others. Now it would be for her.
A week later she flew to the French Riviera. At a seaside café she met Gérard, a writerintelligent, gentle. They talked about books, people, the meaning of life. For the first time in years she laughed genuinely, unconcerned with anyones gaze.
What if we lived here? he suggested one day. I can write anywhere. And youll be my muse. I love you, Marguerine.
She nodded. Why not? There was little time left. At least there could be happinesseven if fleeting.
Two months passed. She felt wonderfully alive. She laughed, strolled, made coffee each morning, spun stories for the terrace neighbors. Her daughter protested at first, then eventually let go. Her husband paid her share. Everything settled.
One morning her phone rang.
Marguerine Lefèvre? a worried voice asked. Im sorry, there was a mistake those test results werent yours. Youre fine. It was just exhaustion.
She stayed silent for a beat, then burst out laughingloudly, heartily.
Thank you, doctor. Youve just given me my life back.
She glanced at Gérard, still asleep, and went to the kitchen to brew coffee. Because she no longer faced eight monthsshe faced a whole lifetime.
