Rose protested: no, no, it’s good, what are you talking about, it must have cost a fortune, all those shrimp . . . As for Sébastien, he would have gladly eaten barbecued chicken. I could see my supper going down the drain and I felt pretty grim. Once again I’d put my foot in it and now I was ­floundering, trying to salvage something. But I’d been ­trying too hard; over the last miles my strength had run out: I felt like dumping it all in the garbage and going to bed. Especially because I thought my lemon shrimp was ­fantastic.

Mathieu suggested to Sébastien that he just eat what he liked. The shrimps disappeared—fortunately!—but the ­vegetables sat there congealing in their lemon sauce. As for Rose, she very politely ate everything. She even managed to say that you get used to undercooked vegetables, and that the lemon gave everything a piquant flavour that she liked . . . She must have read the helplessness in my eyes and was trying to patch things up a little, conciliatory and understanding, every bit the good Québécoise Mom.

Dessert, though—Queen Elizabeth cakes and ice cream from Bilboquet—was an unqualified success. Sébastien was awash in ice cream to his eyebrows, he asked for seconds, banging his spoon on his plate, to the dismay of his grandmother who considered the child’s upbringing odd to say the least. But the atmosphere had relaxed; Rose proved to be a brilliant conversationalist, funny and quick at ­repartee. And best of all, a giggler. I saw in her some of the characteristics I was most fond of in Mathieu. She had brought him up alone and her influence was obvious. Mathieu too had become animated over dessert; he was less defensive and in the surreptitious glances he shot my way when Rose was talking with Sébastien I saw signs of encouragement that made me feel better: I was passing the test, everything was fine, I had nothing to worry about . . . Mathieu was getting to know me very well and he was quick to detect any moments of panic or doubt.