PART 1
The morning Thomas handed me the divorce papers, he had already written my worth in his little black notebook: zero euros.
He had underlined the figure twice in blue pen, as if a woman became useless as soon as you managed to reduce her life to a column of expenses.
It was 6:20 a.m., the rain was beating against the shutters, and the kitchen smelled of burnt coffee.
The tiles were cold under my feet, the chicken soup was simmering gently for its mother, and the old radiator was banging against the wall.
Françoise, my mother-in-law, was already sitting at the small table, her cream vest over her shoulders, her glasses perched on the end of her nose.
She had this way of looking at me without really seeing me, as if I were a hand that serves, a presence that one tolerates because it tidies up.
Thomas entered wearing a grey suit, phone in hand, his hair still damp.
He placed a cardboard folder in front of my bowl.
— Sign this.
The shirt slipped against my cracked mug, the one that nobody ever used.
– It’s what ?
Read more on the next page
PART 2
He gave a dry laugh.
— Don’t start, Camille. You know very well what it is.
Françoise, a soufflé.
— A decent woman would have signed without making a scene.
I opened the file.
Divorce petition.
Separation of assets.
No compensation.
No gesture.
Nothing.
Thomas had attached copies of transfers, with pen annotations: 300 euros for courses, 40 euros for medicine, 25 euros for a gift for his mother, 12.80 euros for advanced pressing.
Each line said the same thing: I fed you, therefore you owe me your silence.
“Did you write everything down?” I asked.
“Of course,” he replied. “I’m responsible. I know where my money goes.”
Silver thread.
I looked at the folded dish towels, Françoise’s shoes lined up near the entrance, the medicines in the cupboard, the white shirts I used to iron on Sunday evenings while he watched his screen.
