The table was set under the trees, the white tablecloth spread perfectly over the wooden surface. In the center stood a carafe of pale golden wine, freshly pressed from the local orchard. The scent of damp earth and green leaves mixed with the subtle sweetness of the drink, carried gently by the breeze. Sigine sat upright in her usual place, her hands folded in her lap.
She wore a light beige silk blouse, the same kind she had worn for years whenever they hosted guests. Across from her sat Thomas. His gray-flecked hair was still neatly combed, his white shirt immaculate. He wasn’t looking at her.
His gaze was fixed on the wine glass, as if he were weighing every word before he spoke. “We’ve lived like this for too long, like two strangers,” he said. His voice was calm, almost considerate. There was no shouting, no dramatic gestures.
Just a sentence spoken in the middle of lunch, in the shade of the trees, just like so many other lunches. She didn’t answer right away. Her eyes rested on the edge of her plate. Sigine remembered that on her wedding day, there had also been locally made wine on the table.
Back then, she was twenty-two and had just left her mother’s small, decaying half-timbered house to step into this place, filled with absolute hope that poverty was now behind her. Thomas continued in the same measured tone. “Julie Møller understands the times we live in. She knows how to communicate our company’s image to the new generations.
And I think you also need to rest. You deserve to live with more peace. ” Sigine simply nodded a little, as if she were listening to the weather forecast. She didn’t cry.
Her tears had dried up long ago. Maybe already in the years when she learned to smile at gatherings while Thomas introduced her to everyone as the woman who keeps the home together. She just watched him in silence as he signed the document the lawyer had just placed on the table. The lawyer, a middle-aged man in a dark suit, cleared his throat.
“The only thing you keep is your mother’s old house at the edge of the village,” he said, speaking as if he were reading out a polite verdict. The village was still the same. Sigine thought about the narrow streets, the smell of bread from the bakery, the old church bell that rang every Sunday. Her sister Kirsten walked in after twenty minutes of waiting.
She looked at Sigine with a softness that said everything without a single word. Sigine stood up slowly, her hands still steady. She didn’t look back at Thomas. She walked out of the garden, past the table, past the wine, past the years of shared silence.
At the edge of the village, her mother’s house waited, small and worn, but it was hers. The door creaked open, and inside, the smell of old wood and dried flowers greeted her. She set her bag down on the kitchen table and sat in the chair by the window. For the first time in years, she felt her shoulders loosen.
She wasn’t a wife anymore. She wasn’t the keeper of someone else’s home. She was just Sigine, and that was enough. Outside, the fields stretched green and quiet, and the afternoon sun fell softly on her mother’s old house.
She smiled, a small, real smile, and poured herself a glass of water from the tap. It tasted like freedom.