A hidden truth that surfaced on my wedding day: my wife already has a daughter!
Sylvain, I didnt want to tell you this on your wedding Anyway, did you know your brandnew bride has a little girl? my coworker blurted, slamming me back into the drivers seat.
What are you talking about? I tried to dismiss the news.
My wife, after seeing your Lucie at the ceremony, whispered in my ear, Isnt it odd that the groom doesnt know his fiancée has a daughter living in an orphanage?
Can you believe it, Sylvain? I almost choked on my salad. My wife claims she personally dealt with the girls abandonment. My Lisa works as a doctor in a maternity ward. She remembered your Lucie because of a birthmark on her neck, and she mentioned that Lucie had named her daughter Chloé and gave her her own surname. I think that was five years ago, my colleague watched my reaction with interest.
I sat frozen behind the wheel. What a bombshell! I decided to get to the bottom of it myself. I couldnt accept such a tale without proof. I knew Lucie wasnt an eighteenyearold; she was thirtytwo when we married, so she must have had a life before me. But why abandon her own child? How could she live with that?
Thanks to my position, I quickly located the orphanage where Chloé was being raised. The director introduced me to a cheerful little girl with a radiant smile:
Heres our Chloé Dupuis, he said to the child, tell the gentleman how old you are, sweetheart.
Her obvious eyeturn was impossible to miss. I felt an instant pang of pity and a deep bond form; after all, she was the daughter of my beloved wife. My grandmother always said, Even a flawed child is a treasure to its parents.
Chloé stepped up bravely:
Im four. Are you my daddy?
I was taken aback. How does one answer a child who sees a father in every man?
Chloé, lets talk. Do you want a mom and a dad? My question felt foolish, yet I already wanted to scoop her into my arms and take her home.
Yes! Will you take me? she stared at me, searching my eyes for an answer.
Ill come get you, but a bit later. Will you wait, sweetheart? tears rose in my throat.
Ill wait. You wont lie? she grew serious.
I wont, I kissed her cheek.
Back home I recounted everything to my wife.
Lucie, whatever happened before me, we have to take Chloé. Ill adopt her.
And you asked my opinion? Do I want this child? And shes crosseyed, too! Lucie raised her voice.
Shes your own daughter! Ill have her eyes fixed. Everything will be fine. Shes adorable; youll fall for her instantly, I was taken aback by her reaction. Convincing Lucie to adopt Chloé proved difficult.
We had to wait a year before bringing the girl home. I visited the orphanage often, and over that time Chloé and I built a strong bond. Lucie, however, showed little enthusiasm for adding a child to our lives and even wanted to halt the adoption halfway through. I pressed on to see it through.
At last the day arrived when Chloé crossed the threshold of our apartment. Little, seemingly insignificant moments filled her with wonder, joy, and amazement. Soon after, ophthalmologists corrected her strabismusa process that took a year and a half. I was relieved that no further surgery was needed.
My daughter turned out to be the spitting image of her mother, Lucie. I felt complete. Two wonderful women illuminated my world: my wife and my child.
Nearly a year after leaving the orphanage, Chloé could not stop clutching a packet of biscuits, even at night. I could never pry it from her; a constant, irrational fear of hunger lingered. Lucie found it irritating, while I was bewildered.
I tried endlessly to unite our family, but my wife never learned to love her own daughter. Lucie loved only herselfher mea fierce selfishness.
Arguments, quarrels, and resentments with Lucie revolved around a single cause: Chloé.
Why did you bring this wild child into our home? Shell never be normal! she screamed hysterically.
I loved Lucie deeply; life without her seemed unimaginable. Yet my mother had once warned me:
Son, its your business, but I saw Lucie with another man. Nothing lasting will come of her. Shes evasive, cunning, and will deceive you before you notice.
When youre in love, obstacles fade. Happiness shines brightly. Lucie was my ideal. The first crack appeared when Chloé entered our house. Perhaps it was because of her that I finally saw the truth of my family. I was shocked by my wifes indifference toward the little girl.
I even considered stopping loving Lucie, pulling away, but it felt impossible. A friend once told me:
Listen, old man, if you want to cool off toward a woman, measure her with a tailors tape. Its an old saying.
Youre joking? I was confused.
Measure the bust, waist, hips. Then youll stop loving her. I thought he was teasing.
Nevertheless, I decided to try. I had nothing to lose.
Lucie, let me measure you, I called my wife.
She looked surprised:
Am I getting a new dress?
Yes, I carefully noted her bust, waist, and hips.
When I finished, I relayed the joke to my friend, laughing that I still loved her just the same.
Soon after, Chloé fell ill with a cold and fever. She whined softly, sniffled, and clung to Lucie, holding her doll Léa. I was glad to see her now hugging a doll instead of a biscuit packet.
My daughter loved constantly changing her dolls outfits, but today the doll stood naked, a sign that its owner felt weak and couldnt dress it. Lucie shouted:
Stop whining. I cant take it anymore! Go to bed!
Chloé held the doll tightly, sobbing hot tears. Suddenly Lucie tore the doll from her hands, rushed to the window, flung it outside in a furious gesture.
Mom, thats my favorite doll, Léa! Shell get cold out there! Can I get her? Chloé cried with all her heart, running to the front door.
I hurried down to retrieve the doll. The elevator was out of service, so I raced down the stairs from the eighth floor. The doll dangled from a branch, upside down. I shook off the snow, the melted flakes on its rubber face looking like tears. Climbing back up, my hair felt like it might turn gray.
Lucies act had no justification. I entered Chloés room; she knelt beside her bed, head on the pillow, whimpering in her sleep. I gently placed her back, setting the doll beside her.
Lucie sat calmly in the living room, reading a magazine, indifferent to Chloés distress. In that moment, my love for my wife evaporated, dissolved, vanished. I finally understood that Lucie was merely an empty, pretty package.
Apparently my wife grasped the situation. We divorced. Chloé stayed with me; Lucie raised no objections.
Later, when I crossed paths with my exwife, she tossed a sarcastic remark:
Sylvain, I was just a transition for you.
Ah, Lucie! Your eyes are emeralds, but your soul is as black as soot, I replied, finally free of bitterness.
Lucie soon remarried a prosperous businessman.
I pity his husband. That woman should never have been a mother, my mother judged.
Chloé initially wept a lot for her absent mother, reaching out for her even with a fingertip. But my new wife, Elisabeth, won Chloés affection and warmed her little heart. The childs mother had given her up twicesomething I could never have imagined.
Elisabeth, with infinite tenderness and boundless patience, cherished Chloé and our son, Nicolas.
