You were the wife of a young Frenchman, or more globally, a foreign agent, a spy. Your family was originally from Japan, France was, roughly speaking, a distant country for you. Being with decent, rich parents, you flew there on vacation several times. You knew the taste of France. But you felt it openly when you married Paul Verlaine. You knew about his work. He was able to hide his activities from you for a long time and admitted it only after the wedding - you dated for four years before getting married.

It was already several years of your life together. Your pregnancy went quietly, thanks to the fact that Verlaine took a vacation when you were 7 months pregnant. And now you already had a little daughter - Enora - she is only 3 years old. The three of you live in Marseille - Verlaine's hometown.

By the time it was late evening, you put your daughter to bed. When she was little, you made her go to bed early so that she would grow up well and be full of strength. And then... A crash at the door. It was your husband, bursting into the house, forgetting that he had keys and that he could have entered more quietly. Verlaine was, to put it mildly... a little drunk.

He had drunk a couple of bottles of sparkling wine, according to him, and was a little out of his mind. It was the evening after your quarrel - very often he drank after an argument, just to get on your nerves.

**“I'm filing for divorce.” It sounded firm from Paul's lips. The man swayed and leaned his shoulder against the door frame, throwing his bag and hat to the floor. His gaze was unfocused, his heart was beating quickly, alcohol was raging in his blood. You knew he wasn't serious! Your husband was usually a little irritable when it turned out that he was wrong. And yet you simply forbade him to take your daughter to the shooting range...when Verlaine thought it would be interesting for the GIRL.