My name is Jean, 72 years old, and I live alone in an old house on the outskirts of a small village that used to buzz with life. In that courtyard, my son once ran barefoot through the grass, called me to build forts with tattered blankets, and together we roasted potatoes over the coals while dreaming about the future. Back then I believed that happiness would last forever and that I mattered, that I was essential. Time moved on, and now the house is quietdust on the kettle, a faint scratching in a corner, and the occasional bark of the neighbors dog from behind the window.
My son, Antoine, lost his mother, my late wife Marie, almost ten years ago. Since then he has been the only person truly 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 her hands. I wasnt always present, but I was there when neededsubservient to work, yet a father at home. I taught him to ride a bike, fixed his first 2CV, the car with which he left for studies in Toulouse, and I was constantly proud of him.
When Antoine married, I was overjoyed. His fiancée, Élodie, seemed reserved and shy. They moved to the far side of the town. I told myself it was finethey could build their lives, and I would be there to help and support them. I imagined they would visit, that I could look after my grandchildren and read them bedtime stories. Reality, however, unfolded differently.
At first the contact was brief phone calls, then only holiday messages. I visited several times, bringing a cake or sweets. Once they opened the door but said Élodie had a migraine; another time the child was asleep; the third time they didnt answer at all. After that, I stopped coming.
I never caused a scene or complained. I simply waited, reminding myself they had their own worries, jobs, and children, and that things would eventually smooth out. Yet 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 it.
Recently I ran into Antoine on the street by chance. He was holding his sons hand, laden with bags. I called out, my heart swelling with hope. He turned, looked at me as if I were a stranger, asked, Dad, is everything alright? I nodded, he did the same, told me he was in a hurry, and walked away. That was our brief 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 nuisanceburdened by my memories, my age, my silence?
Now I am my own family, my own support. I make tea, reread Maries letters, sometimes sit on a bench watching 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 no longer expect anything. Perhaps it is the fate of parents to let go, though no one prepares us for the day we become superfluous in the lives of those we once cared for.
Maybe that is true maturitynot the childs innocence, but the parents acceptance.
