A Decision of the Heart — France

I couldn’t explain why it had to be France.

There were no logical reasons, no guarantees, no familiar faces waiting for us.

Just one day I knew.

Call it intuition, a feeling, a wave from deep within.

I just felt it: there. That was the place.

We took a long time to prepare.

Not our suitcases our souls.

At first, my husband was silent.

Then came the questions.

Then he started searching too.

“Are you sure?” he asked one evening.

I nodded.

“No.

But I’m more afraid of staying than of going.”

Moving isn’t like in the movies.

There are no slow-motion airport scenes, no tearful hugs in golden sunsets, no sweeping music.

There is only exhaustion.

Paperwork. Translations. Waiting.

It’s when you hold your child’s hand and say, “Everything will be okay,”

but you don’t know where you’ll wake up tomorrow.

It’s when you go to the supermarket and search for the word bread by looking at pictures.

When you don’t know how to call a doctor.

When your heart skips a beat every time a strange number calls

Could it be the prefecture? The post office? Something important?

France welcomed us… the French way.

Reserved. A little cold.

But I could feel it: beneath that ice, there might be water.

Alive. Warm. Free.

We settled in Lyon.

A city of hills, rivers, bakeries, and castles perched on rooftops.

It didn’t embrace me, but it didn’t reject me either.

It looked at me like a guest who still had to prove she deserved to stay.

At first, I was no one.

An immigrant. A wife. A mother of three.

But slowly I became myself again.

I started taking French classes.

I sat in the corner at first. Afraid to speak.

Then I spoke.

With mistakes. With an accent.

But with a voice. My own voice.

I enrolled in university.

Started learning all over again. From scratch.

Writing essays, taking tests, trembling before exams.

But I was living.

Not just surviving like I did in Lebanon.

I was living as a woman, as a person,

as a mother moving forward — not just for her children, but for herself too.

One evening, as we cooked dinner together, my daughter looked up and asked:

“Mom… don’t you miss your country?”

She said it gently, with no drama but her eyes were full of honest curiosity.

I paused. Then sat beside her and took her hand in mine.

“I do. Of course I do.

Sometimes terribly.

Sometimes… less.”

I smiled, squeezing her fingers.

“But you know… right now, my country is where you are.

Where I can be myself.”

She nodded silently.

“Home isn’t always about borders,” I added. “Sometimes it’s about people. Sometimes it’s just that feeling of… being in the right place.”

“And Kyrgyzstan?” she whispered.

“All my loved ones are still there. I miss them deeply. I want to see them again.”

My voice wavered.

“But right now, I can’t. I hope someday I can fly back.

I hope they give us the papers. That will change everything.”

I stood up, walked to the stove, and lifted the lid.

The scent of mint, garlic, and something warm filled the kitchen.

“We chose France because here… we finally felt safe.

Secure. And, in its own way comfortable.”

“But it’s so different from home…” she murmured.

“Sometimes,” I said with a soft smile, “I find pieces of home here.

In a smell. A taste. Even in the little bakery on the corner.”

I reached into the cupboard and pulled out a jar of boudin noir blood sausage.

“Here. This is called boudin. A French dish. But honestly it tastes just like our byzhy. Almost identical.”

“Really?” she blinked in surprise.

“Really. And terrine it reminds me of zhormo, the meat dish my father used to make.”

My face lit up with memory.

“He’d carefully prepare the lamb, cutting it just right. And then zhormo.

Hot, rich, fragrant the kind of smell that could bring neighbors to your door.”

We both laughed. A warm feeling rose in my chest.

“And byzhy…? Oh, how my mother made it.

We, the children, would wait by the kitchen door, completely spellbound.

Quiet. Still.

Because if you started whining, she’d say, ‘Out. You’re in the way.’”

“And after that?”

“Then it was gone. In seconds. Not a bite left.

Even the adults waited for us kids to start before they would eat.

It was more than food. It was… togetherness.”

My daughter listened, eyes wide.

I saw something shift in her the beginning of her own connection.

“In France, I’ve found that taste again.

Not exactly. Not perfectly.

But enough to know I haven’t lost myself.”

“Are you… happy?” she asked softly.

“I’m on my way,” I whispered.

And I’m going somewhere I can really live,

not just survive.

Where I’m not just a mother. Not just a wife.

But a woman

with a voice.

And the right to use it.

She came close and hugged me. We said nothing.

Outside the window, someone passed by.

And softly, like a whisper, I heard it:

Bonjour.