Marguerine returned home late that night, the Paris lights already flickering beyond the windows. Standing in 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, slumped in his armchair, taken aback.
Where are you going? he asked, blinking in confusion.
Thats none of your business, she replied calmly, pulling a suitcase from the closet. Ill stay with a friend in the country for a while. Well see what comes next.
He couldnt grasp what was happening, but she had already made her decision.
Three days earlier, the doctor, while reviewing her test results, had gently said:
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 looped: Eight months I wont even get to celebrate my birthday
On a bench in the Luxembourg Gardens, an elderly man sat beside her. He stayed quiet 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 ray of sunshine is a gift. Dont you agree?
I would 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 life had been lived for others. A job she loathed but kept for stability. A husband who had become a stranger over ten yearsinfidelities, coldness, indifference. A daughter who called only to ask for money or favors. And for herself, nothing: no shoes, no holidays, not even a café table alone.
She had saved everything for later. Now that later might never arrive. Something inside her cracked. She went back inside and, for the first time, said no to everything, all at once.
The next day Marguerine asked for leave, withdrew her savings, and left. Her husband tried to make sense of it, her daughter called demanding money she answered each request with calm resolve: No.
In her friends country house everything was peaceful. Wrapped in a blanket she thought: is this really how everything ends? 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 writersmart, gentle. They talked about books, people, the meaning of life. For the first time in years she laughed genuinely, free of others judgments.
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: laughing, strolling, making coffee each morning, inventing stories for the terrace neighbors. Her daughter protested at first, then eventually let go. Her husband paid her share. The tension eased.
One morning her phone rang.
Marguerine Lefèvre? a worried voice asked. Im sorry, there was a mistake those test results werent yours. Everythings fine. It was just exhaustion.
She was silent for a moment, then burst into a loud, genuine laugh.
Thank you, doctor. You just gave me my life back.
She looked at Gérard, still asleep, and headed to the kitchen to make coffee. Because she no longer had eight months leftshe now had an entire life ahead.
