I will no longer live someone elses life
Marguerine arrived home late that night. The lights of Paris already flickered beyond the windows. Standing on the doorway with a bag in her 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, slumped into his armchair, taken aback.
Where are you going? he asked, blinking in bewilderment.
Thats none of your business, she replied calmly, pulling a suitcase from the wardrobe. Ill stay a while at a friends place in the country. Well see what happens after that.
He couldnt grasp what was unfolding, but she had already made up her mind.
Three days earlier, the doctor, while reviewing her test results, had said gently:
In your case, the outlook is poor. Eight months at most maybe a year with treatment.
She left the office feeling as if she were walking through fog. The city throbbed, the sun shone. In her mind a sentence repeated endlessly: Eight months I wont even see my next 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 sun, then spoke without warning:
I want my last day to be sunny. I dont expect much, but a beam of light is a gift. Dont you agree?
Id notice it if I knew it was my final year, she murmured.
Then stop postponing everything. Ive had so many laters that I could have filled a lifetime with them. It never worked.
Marguerine listened and understoodher whole existence had been devoted to others. A job she loathed, kept only for stability. A husband who had become a stranger over the past decadeinfidelities, 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 solitary café on a terrace.
She had hoarded everything for later. Now that later might never arrive. Something inside her cracked. She went back 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 moreshe answered each plea with calm resolve: No.
In her friends countryside house everything was quiet. Wrapped in a blanket, she wondered: was this really how everything would end? She hadnt lived; she had merely survivedfor others. Now it would be for her.
A week later she flew to the French Riviera. In 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, unbothered by 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? Time was short. At least there could be happiness, even if fleeting.
Two months passed. She felt wonderfully alive. She laughed, strolled, brewed coffee each morning, spun stories for the terrace neighbors. Her daughter first protested, then eventually let go. Her husband handed over his 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; its just fatigue.
She stayed silent a heartbeat, then burst into a loud, genuine laugh.
Thank you, doctor. Youve just given me back my life.
She glanced at Gérard, still asleep, and went to the kitchen to make coffee. Because she no longer had eight months leftshe now had a whole lifetime.
