From Quart Monde street, laughter and shouting drift toward us.

Without sound, Mom leans out the window. She whispers a magic word only she knows. The gate doesn’t open. We slip in somehow.

Miracle : after a few loops around the parking lot, the engine gives up. We park in the shade, in an unclaimed place. She unbuckles me, then pulls me tight against her. We stay there, frozen, staring through the windshield.

Ahead of us, large letters cling to a gloomy façade. I’ve always struggled to read. Mom knows this, so she reads them for me: « C.J.W. »

She quickly changes the subject and adds : « You love painting. You won’t be bored here ! You’ll see : It’ll do you good. » I’m making a face, mumbling to my beard.

She helps me out of the car, and we walk slowly toward the center. My bag weighs on my shoulders. As always, Mom offers to carry it. Once relieved, we hurry. She doesn’t want to be late. I cling to her arm. I drag my feet, counting the steps to the entrance: one, two, three, four, five, six… and then the rest I miss.

Parents stand by the gate. Some cry, some wear a look of victory.

We stop in front of a buzzer. Mom says it’s for security. Her words only half reassure me. I don’t like this place anyway. A dubious sound resounds.

A staff member greets us. I can’t tell what she’s dressed to be, but I don’t know why, her white outfit makes me laugh. Maybe it’s the chocolate stain smeared across her badge I see. She looks just as clumsy as I feel. That comforts me.

She steps closer, her voice is almost sing-song : « Welcome to the Joseph Wresinski Center. I’m Elodie. And you, what’s your name, won’t you tell me ? »

In a soft voice, Mom answers : « His name is Leon.»

From the courtyard, laughter and shouting claw my name.

Candy’s being passed around. It’s four o’clock, snack time. The room hums.

Some children sleep at the back in their strollers. Others roll past in small plastic cars. Further on, trembling hands pour tea into paper cups.

I scan the room, looking for the lively ones, for those who still know how to be children. But for the first time, the grown-ups’ world feels small.

They say Wednesday is a children’s day. But I’m grown now. Aren’t I, Mom?

She squeezes my hand, the minutes stand.

Her eyes shine. She holds her breath. Then she leans down and says :

— « Remember... We’re in the nursing home. And today is Thursday, Dad...»

cogito escritum

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Bibliography :

– Anna Gavalda, « Happy Meal », Happy meal et autres récits, Klett, 2004

– Jean‑Michel Defromont, Tout droit jusqu’au bout du monde, Quart Monde, 1992.