My name is Jean, 72 years old, and I live alone in an old house on the edge of a small village that once pulsed with life. In this courtyard, my son used to run barefoot through the grass, call me to help build forts from tattered blankets, and together we would roast potatoes over the coals while dreaming about the future. Back then I believed that happiness would last foreverthat I was needed and important. Time, however, moved on, and now the house is quiet: dust gathers on the kettle, a faint scratching sounds from a corner, and the occasional bark of the neighbors dog drifts in through the window.
My son is Antoine. His mother, my late wife Marie, passed away nearly ten years ago. Since then Antoine has been the only person still close to me, the last thread connecting me 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 I was there when it matteredworking by day, father by night. I taught him to ride a bike, fixed his first 2CV, the car with which he left for studies in Toulouse, and I was always proud of him.
When Antoine married, my joy swelled. His bride, Élodie, struck me as shy and modest. They moved to the far side of town, and I thought, Let them live their lives, build their own home. Ill 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, turned out differently.
At first the phone calls were brief, then only holiday messages. I made several visits myselfbringing a pie, candy, anything. Once they opened the door but told me Élodie had a migraine; another time the child was asleep; a third time they didnt answer at all. After that I stopped going.
I never caused a scene or complained. I simply sat and waited, telling myself they had their own troubles, work, childrenthat eventually things would smooth out. As months passed I realized there was no place for me in their lives. Even on the anniversary of Maries death they did not come; a single phone call was all I received.
Recently I ran into Antoine on the street by chance. He was holding his sons hand, juggling several bags. I called out to him, my heart leapt with hope. He turned, looked at me as if I were a stranger. Dad, everything alright? he asked. I nodded, he nodded back, said he was in a hurry, and walked away. That was our brief encounter.
I walked home for a long time, wondering where I went 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 memories, old age, silence?
Now I am my own family, my own support. I brew tea, reread Maries letters, sometimes sit on a bench watching other children play. The neighbor, Léa, occasionally waves; I return the gesture with a nod. This is how I live.
I still love my son above all else, but I no longer expect anything. Perhaps that is the fate of parentsto let go. No one prepares us for the day we become superfluous in the lives of those we once lived for.
And maybe that is true maturity: not the childs innocence, but the parents acceptance.
