Alexandre Beaugrand told me I should prepare myself for the worst, adding that the medical team was increasingly concerned because there was no change in Louis’s condition and the clinical evidence was undeniable. To show his willingness, and because he accepted Charlotte’s reasoning, he was prepared to increase the frequency of the electroencephalogram over the last remaining days, but he did not share my observations, or my conviction. Over the last remaining days. Alexandre Beaugrand had just stabbed me brutally in the back. I concluded that he couldn’t be a father – which Charlotte confirmed. How would he handle these situations when he was able to apply feelings he had personally experienced to other people’s tragedies? How would he react when the face of his own youngster superimposed itself on the ashen face of a child in the final stages of life?

Charlotte took me home. I didn’t feel like seeing either Edgar or Isadora.

I knew there’d be something with Edgar, one day. It was a certainty I had a gut feeling about, which was reinforced by the time we spent together. But, right now, my heart was closed to everyone except my son. Edgar would have to be patient. He assured me he would be, and I wanted to believe him. At any rate, I didn’t want to think about that sort of thing, not at present. So, I let things take their course, I let things go.

When we were on our way back from our trip to Budapest, in the taxi taking us to the airport, we exchanged a kiss. Or rather, our lips brushed. Chaste, pure. Let it stay that way for now.

‘I can’t give you any more,’ I whispered.

‘I don’t expect any more,’ he replied, taking my hand. ‘We have plenty of time. Think about Louis, do what you have to do. Don’t have any regrets.’

Three days to go until the end. I needed my mother by my side. To have her squeeze me. Hard. My mother and I had never been very demonstrative, but I do believe that, over the past few weeks, we’d made up for a good ten years or so. I couldn’t get to sleep any more without her. Finding myself alone in my bedroom terrified me, I needed to feel her warm body next to mine, and I could tell she needed that too. Every day, my mother repeated the words she spoke too rarely when I was a child: I love you. My mother and I were experiencing a total revolution. Why had it taken such a tragedy for us to discover how much we meant to each other? Why had we ruined all those years hating each other through all that remained unspoken, when, deep down, nothing was broken? So much time lost, so many missed opportunities, so much emotional damage.