My name is Jean, Im 72, and I live alone in an aging house on the edge of a tiny village that used to buzz with life. In that courtyard, my son used to run barefoot through the grass, call out to me, and together we built forts with old blankets, roasted potatoes over coals and dreamed about the future. Back then I believed that happiness would last forever, that I was needed and important. Time went on, and now the house is quietdust on the kettle, a creak in a corner, and the occasional bark of the neighbors dog beyond the window.
My son is Antoine. His mother, my late wife Marie, passed away almost ten years ago. Since then Antoine has been the only person close to me, the last link to a past that still held warmth and meaning.
We raised him with love, care, and firmness. I worked hard; my hands never knew rest. Marie was the heart of our home, and I was the hands that kept it running. I wasnt always present, but when it mattered I was theresubordinate to work yet a father at home. I taught him to ride a bike, fixed his first 2CV, the car he took to study in Toulouse. I was proud of him, always.
When Antoine married, my joy was immense. His fiancée, Élodie, seemed reserved and shy. They moved to the far side of town. I told myself, Let them live their lives, build something. Ill be there to help, to support. I imagined they would visit, that I could watch my grandchildren, read them stories at night. Reality turned out differently.
At first the calls were brief, then only holiday messages. I showed up several times with a pie, some sweets. Once they opened the door but told me Élodie had a migraine. Another time the child was asleep. The third time they didnt open at all. After that I stopped coming.
I never made a scene or complained. I just sat and waited, telling myself they had their own troubles, work, childrenthings would sort themselves out. But as the years passed I realized there was no place for me in their lives. Even on the anniversary of Maries death they didnt comejust a phone call, and that was all.
Recently I ran into Antoine by chance on the street. He was holding his sons hand, juggling bags. I called out; my heart leapt. He turned, looked at me as if I were a stranger. Dad, everything all right? he asked. I nodded, he nodded back, said he was in a hurry, and walked away. That was our encounter.
I walked home for a long time, wondering where I had gone wrong. Why had my own son become a stranger to me? Had I been too strict, or perhaps too lenient? Or had I simply become a burdenmy memories, my old age, my silence?
Now I am my own family, my own support. I make tea, reread Maries letters, sometimes sit on the bench and watch other children play. The neighbor, Léa, sometimes waves; I answer with a nod. This is how I live.
I still love my sonmore than anything. But I no longer expect anything. Perhaps thats the fate of parents: to let go. No one prepares us for the day we become superfluous in the lives of those we once lived for.
Maybe that is true maturitynot the child’s innocence, but the parents acceptance.
