My son built a family that has no room for me
My name is Jean, Im 72 years old. I live alone in an old house on the edge of a small village that used to be bustling with life. In the yard, my son used to run barefoot through the grass, call me to make forts out of old blankets, and together wed roast potatoes over the coals while dreaming about the future. Back then I thought that happiness would last forever, that I was needed, that I mattered. Time moved on, and now the house is quiet. Dust sits on the kettle, something scratches in a corner, and the neighbors dog barks occasionally behind the window.
My son is Antoine. His mother, my late wife Marie, passed away nearly ten years ago. Since then hes been the only person close to me, the last link to a past that still held warmth and meaning.
We raised him with love and care, but also with firmness. I worked hard; my hands never knew rest. Marie was the heart of our home, and I was its hands. I wasnt always there, but I was whenever it mattered. I was subordinate to work, yet a father at home. I taught him to ride a bike, repaired his first 2CV, the car he took to study in Toulouse. I was proud of himalways.
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, Fine, let them live their lives, build something. Ill be there to help, to support. I imagined theyd visit me, that I could watch my grandchildren, read them bedtime stories. Nothing turned out that way.
At first the calls were brief, then only holiday messages. I showed up a few times myselfbringing a pie, some sweets. Once they opened the door, but Élodie claimed she had a migraine. Another time the child was asleep. The third time they didnt even answer. After that I stopped coming.
I didnt make a scene. I didnt complain. I just sat and waited, telling myself they had their own troubles, work, kidsthings would sort themselves out. Time passed and 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, carrying bags. I called out, my heart leapt with hope. He turned, looked at me like a stranger. Dad, everything okay? 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. While walking I wondered: where did I go wrong? How did my own son become a stranger to me? Was I too strict? Too lenient? Or perhaps I simply became a nuisancemy memories, my old age, my silence
Now I am my own family, my own support. I make tea, reread Maries letters, sometimes sit on a 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 son more than anything, but I expect nothing more. Perhaps thats the fate of parentsletting go. No one prepares us for the day we become unnecessary in the lives of those we once lived for.
Maybe that is true maturity: not the childs innocence, but the parents acceptance.
