I always bring him something, cashew nuts, dates, raspberries, even little gifts, books, something from the Arsène Lupin series, Dumas’ Twenty Years After, an Adidas T-shirt, a Velcro wallet, a compass keyring. Each time he says, Wow that's cool, he smiles, he hugs me, Thanks Mom, he touches my hand, he touches my arm, he leans against my shoulder.

Most of the time we're happy to see each other, even though it's like we're in a visiting room, it feels good to tell myself I'm not crazy, that I didn't dream up all the things I know about him, about us, he's there and so am I, just as we always have been, the procedure, the judges, the people, their opinions, it's all fake, it's all lies, delusions, the things people say can't change anything, what's real is real, it always will be.

But sometimes the hour drags. Sometimes we can't take any more. Sometimes I run out of things to say and so does he. Sometimes it feels grotesque, the way we exchange news, from afar, like bad actors, like two people who are no longer part of each other's lives. The cordial tone we put on when we have an audience. Sometimes that's all I can think about, how absurd it is to be speaking about nothing in front of these early childhood professionals who delight in our bond, who take notes on the progress we make, the stages we go through, the tiredness. Sometimes we get tired of reporting our schedules, talking about our activities, making plans that always fall through. Sometimes we just want to stop talking. Sometimes we just want to sleep. I can understand how this drives people to despair.

6

“Having homosexual relations cannot be considered a sign of mental instability in this day and age. Neither can writing books.” The expert psychiatrist's report has come through. In April, nine months after the judge gave him six months to deliver it. That sentence was either in the introduction or the conclusion, I don't remember. The doctor deemed it necessary for an expert, a psychiatrist, to clarify this point, just in case there was any doubt in anyone's mind, Laurent's, the judges’, five years after gay marriage was legalized. The law is the law, but if you look closer, it's falling apart at the seams. Apparently at the school, the school in the 6th district of Paris, there are parents who've said I'm sick. And hardly any of my family speaks to me anymore, apart from my dad, dearest papa, even if it wasn't easy at first.