She leaned towards him and ran her hand through his hair, an abrupt little gesture that was almost a slap, as she used to do when he was little and she wanted to make a point during an argument.

“At least I had some suspicions about your secret . . .”

At that he was frankly ashamed.

“Are you happy, even though he’s married and you’re stuck with being the other woman?”

“Yes. Absolutely. It suits me because he’s not underfoot all the time like your father and . . . well, you should know, sometimes it’s exciting, sneaking around . . .”

“Both of us are happy and we never said a word to each other . . .”

“Some kinds of happiness are harder to take than others . . .”

“Or to confess . . .”

“Or to confess.”

“So who is he anyway? You haven’t even told me his full name! What does he do?”

“And what about yours?”

“How do you manage your Saturday mornings? Doesn’t his wife suspect anything?”

“She isn’t too bright . . . She thinks he goes to the gym to work out . . . He works out all right, but not the way she thinks . . .”

“Mamma, honestly!”

“Is he good to Sébastien at least?”

“He tries . . . but he’s only seen him once.”

It went on and on, passionate and impassioned, with ­plenty of tears and giggles; it was like a combined pyjama party and primal therapy session; it brought pain and relief, it was exalting but upsetting too, because it was so fragile: one ill-chosen or misinterpreted word could have destroyed everything. But they chose the right words and the night passed, catching them unawares.

They went to bed at dawn, exhausted, Mathieu huddling against his son’s warm body and falling asleep at once, Rose overwhelmed at what she had confessed and what she’d learned, unable to get to sleep, hypnotized with fatigue but with her eyes wide open to what was shaping up to be a cold, grey Sunday.

Sébastien remained inconspicuous as long as he could; he even fixed breakfast all by himself—a bowl of cereal, a glass of juice—but around ten o’clock he’d had enough, and he jumped onto the living room sofa where his father was lying, singing the theme from “Passe-Partout.”

Getting up was long and difficult. Mathieu felt as if he’d smoked too much, drunk too much. A full-fledged hangover with headache, upset stomach, the works . . . But Sébastien, rested and fresh as a newborn, a crayon in his fist and a smile on his lips, was demanding the attention he believed he was entitled to.