Our family is cursed. The eldest son is always doomed. My grandmother’s first son died in an accident aged seventeen, then I lost my son, my niece lost her first son, my cousin lost hers. All were young. Now I have grandchildren, I worry about them.

Maurice was killed in a car accident on 27 August 1981. We had gone on holiday to Spain, we had just come back. Two days after our return the television set had given up the ghost, so my husband and I had decided to buy a new one. Maurice didn’t want to come with us so he stayed at home. We went off to buy the set and it took us longer than we expected. Maurice decided to go out on his bike, on the main road, and that’s where it happened. When we got back the accident had just occurred. I had my two younger children in the back of the car, aged five and three. When we came back he was lying there on the side of the road, his eyes were open, but he was already in a coma. He never woke up. We went to the hospital. I still didn’t understand the gravity of the situation, although I realized that there was a lot of blood. The doctor came out and said, ‘Well, it’s all over.’ Just like that. There was stuff in the corridor, I threw it around, I smashed it all up, I screamed, I went mad, I don’t know what I did. We were allowed to see him, but I didn’t dare to look, to pull back the covers, to disturb him. I couldn’t bear to see. I just looked at his face. And from that point on I descended into hell.

It never occurred to me that anyone would find my letter in the bottle. It simply never crossed my mind. I thought it would smash in the waves and the fragments of glass and paper would gently disperse through the oceans. I gave it to the sea, to the universe, it was perhaps my way of talking to God. I didn’t sign it, I put very few personal details in the letter, not thinking that anyone would ever reply.