“My dear husband is prone to gross exaggerations. I can get by without my maman for a longer period of time just fine.” They exchange some more words in French, then both smile at me. “But she is the only babysitter I trust so far,” Flo adds in English.

As if Emma knows the topic has—again—shifted to her, she starts crying. I notice how both Flo and Camille immediately jump to attention, the champagne-induced carefree playfulness leaving their faces.

Ben gets up and makes a calming gesture with his hands. “Je m’en occupe, les filles,” he says.

“My godson will make a wonderful father one day,” Sylvie says.

I watch Ben scoot off to the part of the living room where Emma’s bed has been set up for the day and remember what Camille told me on our very first date. That throughout her life her children always came first. That she silently endured years of infidelity from her husband for their sake. How she put her own needs on the back burner in order to give them the best life possible. Maybe Flo and Ben are just immensely grateful to their mother for keeping the peace all these years and all they want for her now is to see her happy, even if it means being in a long-distance relationship with another woman. With the stranger sitting at their table, making nervous conversation, trying to catch the nuance in the language they’re speaking for my benefit but which is not their own.

As thrilled as I am to be here in Paris with Camille, to have spent this first glorious week with her, I wonder if it all won’t be too complicated in the end. Mathieu might have been joking but I’ve only seen them together a couple of times and it is impossible to ignore how close Camille and her daughter are, and the way she lit up when Ben arrived home on Friday evening. She is a woman who has sacrificed for her children, who adores them, and will never be apart from them for longer than she has to, even now that they’re adults. It’s clear as day that she’s one of those women who needs to live in close proximity to her family.

A while later, after we’ve polished off most of the champagne and Camille has brewed a strong pot of coffee, the group has moved to the couch. Through my own growing tipsiness I’ve noticed how Camille has become more elated over the course of the afternoon, also helped by alcohol, no doubt, but perhaps also by the fact that she has us all in the same place. In this vast house where her grandparents used to live and where her children have grown up and are now reunited for a day.