Mag-log inMarcus The morning is cold, very cold, that cold that makes the snow crunch underfoot, that makes the frost sparkle on the branches, that makes the air enter the lungs like a gulp of ice water, but I love this cold, I love this white light that makes everything clearer, sharper, truer, and I cross the garden with my box of pastries, the ones I prepared this morning before dawn, the ones the twins adore, the ones Léon calls "dad's pastries" without knowing that it's true, without knowing that it's the truth, without knowing that it's what I am, what I will be, what I am in the process of becoming, a father, a real one, the one who makes pastries in the morning, who brings them warm, who shares them with his children, who watches them eat while laughing, while talking, while living. I have almost reached the door of the house when she comes out, Liora, Élianor's sister, the one who arrived a few days ago with her suitcase and her secrets and her fears, the one who resembles her sister
The days pass, Liora settles in, she discovers the house, the garden, Marcus's little house, the twins running everywhere, Matha who cooks, who cleans, who watches over everyone, and Marcus, always Marcus, who comes, who leaves again, who waits, who hopes, who loves, and she looks at me, she looks at me with her eyes that are her own, that are mine, and she asks me, one evening, as we are drinking tea in the kitchen, the children asleep, Marcus gone home, Matha gone up to bed, we are alone, at last, for the first time since she arrived, alone like two sisters who never had the time to talk, to get to know each other, to love each other:"Why do you chase after him, Marcus, why do you flee from him, why don't you tell him what you feel, why don't you tell him that you love him, why don't you tell him that you want to be with him, that you want him to be the father of your children, that you want him to be your husband, that you want him to be your life, your fa
ÉlianorLiora arrives the next day with a suitcase and a backpack, she settles into the guest room, she puts down her things, she looks around, she whistles under her breath, she says it's classy, it's really classy, that I'm really rich, that I'm really powerful, that I'm really everything she is not, everything she will never be, everything she would have wanted to be, if she had had the courage, the strength, the will to fight, to win, to dominate, instead of letting herself drift, letting herself live, letting herself exist, without ever doing anything, attempting anything, building anything, being anything, having anything, being worth anything.I look at her, I look at her with her ripped jeans, her oversized sweatshirt, her sneakers that have seen better days, her long hair tied back in a ponytail, her eyes that shine, that shine with that light she hides, she buries, she inters under her airs of a girl who doesn't care about anything,
ÉlianorIt's Matha who tells me what happened at school, it's Matha who tells me that Léon got into a fight, that Marcus went to get him, that Marcus handled everything, that Marcus spoke to the principal, to the teachers, to the boy's parents, that Marcus did what was necessary so that Léon wasn't punished, so he wasn't scolded, so he wasn't humiliated, so he knew he had done the right thing, that he was right, that he had courage, that he had heart, that he has what it takes to be a man, a real one, a man who fights for those he loves, who fights for what is right, who fights for what is true, who fights for what is beautiful, who fights not to let others destroy, humiliate, break, what deserves to be protected, defended, loved.I go down to the living room, I find all three of them, Marcus, Léon, Lola, they are sitting on the floor, they are playing a board game, they are laughing, they are talking, they are living, th
MarcusI bring Léon home, I hold him by the hand, I watch him walk beside me, his little legs treading through the snow, his little hands in mine, his little eyes shining, shining from having been understood, defended, loved, and I tell myself that this is it, being a father, it's not giving your name, it's not signing papers, it's not taking DNA tests, it's being there, it's showing up when you are needed, it's defending you when you are attacked, it's telling you that you did the right thing when you had courage, when you had heart, when you have what it takes to be a man, a real one, a man who fights for those he loves, who fights for what is right, who fights for what is true, who fights for what is beautiful, who fights not to let others destroy, humiliate, break, what deserves to be protected, defended, loved."You came," Léon says to me, looking up at me, squeezing my hand a little tighter, walking a little closer, breathing a l
MarcusThe school calls in the middle of the morning, the principal's voice is tense, embarrassed, she tells me that Léon got into a fight, that he hit another boy, that someone needs to come, that it's serious, that it's important, that it's urgent, and I don't hesitate for a second, I take my car, I cross the city, I park haphazardly in front of the school, I enter, I run, I push open doors, I cross hallways, I climb stairs, I arrive in the principal's office, and I see Léon, my son, my son who is five years old, sitting on a chair, his fists clenched, his eyes red, his lips trembling, not crying, not crying because he is strong, because he is brave, because he is a man, because he doesn't want anyone to see him cry, because he doesn't want to be taken for a weakling, a coward, someone who is afraid, who is hurting, who is suffering, and I go to him, I crouch down in front of him, I take his hands in mine, I unclench them, I open them, I look a
LioraFive years.Five years of watching the slow demise of the printing press, counting unpaid bills, smiling until my jaw ached. The club's air is unchanging: a scent of stale wax, old wood, and muffled despair. I stand straight, hands flat on the back of an armchair
ÉlianorOne month. Thirty days exactly. Martha's house transformed into a cocoon, a space where time was suspended, healed by the sugar of Charles's desserts, the light of movies about stars, and the deliberate choice of my children. The fortress held. My foundations,
ÉlianorLilou shakes her head, clinging to a more concrete logic.— But we must come from someone. We have eyes, hair… Léon has black hair, I have blonde hair like you, Mom. So… maybe we don't have the same daddy?The question,
ÉlianorWhite.An immaculate, gentle white that wraps around everything. It is the first thing I perceive. An absence of color, of weight, of cold. A diffuse, soothing light.Is this what heaven feels like?I have never truly believed in heaven. Hell, yes I know it well. I have walked through it. B







