One summer, one autumn, one winter. One association approved by the Paris Court of Appeal. Rue de Charenton. Family mediation. Meeting space. It was April by the time they finally called me, nine months after the ruling that said “unless the parties agree otherwise,” I could exercise my visitation rights at the association while waiting for the second hearing, which I'll have to ask for once the expert psychiatrist files his report. The space is full of bright colors, children's furniture, crappy toys, the kind of forced cheerfulness you get in hospitals and prisons. I wait for them to call me. I'm not here to see my son, not yet, I'm here so I can meet them, the people at the association, as if I had anything to say to them, as if they had anything to teach me. In the waiting room, children I can't bear to look at, tired parents, the social services people. The place stinks of hardship, the real sort that poor people have to go through, the sort that never goes away. I think about my son, I don't want him to come here, I don't want him to see this world, he has no place here. I keep my jacket on, my headphones in my ears, I listen to rap because rap always protects you, I don't sit down. They can't get me, they'll never get me. Someone calls me inside. The director's there, a nice little lady about sixty years old who comes up to my chest, accompanied by a badly dressed intern. At five foot nine, standing there in my leather jacket, with my tattoos, my snobby accent, nose in the air, icy tone, I'm like a cross between the Baron de Charlus and Sid Vicious. I choose the raspberry red armchair. They sit down opposite me, on the teal sofa that sits a little lower. They talk about a “break in the story,” “reestablishing the connection,” they say “the mom” and “the dad.” At first I hold back. I know I have to keep it together. But I can't help myself. I tell them I don't understand their vocabulary. I tell them I'm not his mom, I'm his mother, which is not the same thing at all. They said they'll be seeing Paul soon “with the dad,” that they'll call me for the first meeting in a month or two. I leave. I light a cigarette. I breathe in, I breathe out. The anger disappears with the smoke.

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