I will no longer live someone elses life
Marguerite slipped back into her apartment late that night. The Parisian lights already flickered beyond the windows. Standing on the doorway with a bag in hand, she spoke with an unexpected firmness:
Im filing for divorce. You can keep the flat, but youll have to reimburse my share. I dont need it. Im leaving.
Victor, her husband, sagged 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. Im staying with a friend in the countryside for a while. Well see what comes after.
He couldnt grasp what was happening, but she had already made her decision.
Three days earlier, the doctor had examined her test results and said gently:
In your case the outlook is poor. Eight months at most perhaps a year with treatment.
She left the office feeling as if she were walking through a fog. The city buzzed, the sun shone, and a single sentence looped in her mind: Eight months I wont even get to celebrate my birthday
On a bench in the Luxembourg Garden, an elderly man sat beside her. He lingered in silence for a moment, soaking up the autumn sunshine, then spoke without preamble:
I want my last day to be sunny. I dont expect much, but a ray of sun is a gift. Dont you agree?
Id notice it if I knew it was my final year, she murmured.
Then stop putting things off. Ive had so many later moments I could fill a lifetime with them, but it never worked.
Marguerite listened and understoodher whole life had been devoted to others. A job she despised, kept only for stability. A husband who had become a stranger over the past decadeinfidelities, coldness, indifference. A daughter who called only to ask for money or a favor. And for herself, nothing: no shoes, no vacations, 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, said no to everything in one breath.
The next day Marguerite requested a leave of absence, withdrew her savings, and left. Her husband tried to make sense of it, her daughter called demandingshe answered each request with calm resolve: No.
At her friends country house everything was quiet. Wrapped in a blanket she wondered: is this really how it ends? She hadnt lived; she had merely survivedfor other people. Now it would be for herself.
A week later she flew to the Côte dAzur. In a seaside café she met Gérard, a writerintelligent, gentle. They talked about books, people, the meaning of existence. For the first time in years she laughed genuinely, free of anyones gaze.
What if we stayed here? he suggested one day. I can write anywhere. And youll be my muse. I love you, Marguerite.
She nodded. Why not? She didnt have much time left. Let there be happiness, even if fleeting.
Two months passed. She felt wonderfully alivelaughing, strolling, making coffee each morning, inventing stories for the terrace neighbors. Her daughter protested at first, then eventually let go. Her husband handed over his share. Everything settled.
One morning her phone rang.
Marguerite Lefèvre? an anxious voice asked. Im sorry, there was a mistake those tests werent yours. Everythings fine. Its just exhaustion.
She stayed quiet for a beat, then burst into a loud, genuine laugh.
Thank you, doctor. Youve just given me my life back.
She looked at Gérard sleeping, headed to the kitchen to brew coffee, because she no longer faced eight monthsshe faced an entire life.
