A secret was revealed on my wedding day: my wife has a daughter!
Sylvain, I didnt want to tell you this at your wedding But did you know your brandnew bride already has a child? my coworker blurted, pinning me to my 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 fiancées daughter lives in an orphanage?
You realize, Sylvain? I nearly choked on my salad. My wife says she personally handled the little girls abandonment. My Lisa works as a doctor in a maternity ward. She recognized your Lucie because of a birthmark on her neck. She also mentioned that Lucie had named her daughter Chloé and gave her her surname. I think that happened about five years ago, my colleague observed, watching my reaction with interest.
I sat frozen behind the wheel. What a shocking revelation! I decided to get to the bottom of it myself; I couldnt swallow such a story. I knew Lucie wasnt an eighteenyearold; she was thirtytwo when we married, so she must have had a life before me. But why would she abandon her own child? How could she live with that?
Using my position, I quickly located the orphanage where Chloé was being raised. The director introduced a cheerful little girl with a radiant smile:
Heres our Chloé Dupuis, he said to her. Tell the gentleman how old you are, sweetheart.
The childs noticeable eyeturn was impossible to miss, and it tugged at my heart. I felt an instant, deep attachmentafter all, this little one was the daughter of my beloved wife. My grandmother always said, Even a flawed child is a treasure to his parents.
Bravely, Chloé approached me:
Im four years old. Are you my dad? she asked.
I was taken aback. How do you answer a child who sees a father in every man?
Chloé, can we talk for a moment? Do you want both a mom and a dad? My question was admittedly naïve, but I already wanted to scoop the adorable girl 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 later, but you have to wait, okay? I felt tears welling up.
Ill wait. You wont lie to me, will you? she pressed.
I wont, I promised, kissing her cheek.
Back at 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 snapped, raising her voice.
Its your own daughter! Ill have her eyes fixed. Everything will be fine. Shes adorableyoull fall in love with her instantly, I replied, surprised by her reaction.
Convincing Lucie to adopt Chloé proved difficult.
We had to wait a year before bringing the girl home. I visited her often at the orphanage, and over that year Chloé and I built a strong bond. Lucie, however, was far from enthusiastic; she even tried to halt the adoption halfway through. I insisted we see it through.
Finally, the day arrived when Chloé stepped over the threshold of our apartment. Small, seemingly trivial details 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 would be needed.
My daughter turned out to be the spitting image of her mother, Lucie. I felt complete. Two wonderful women illuminated my life: my wife and my daughter.
Nearly a year after leaving the orphanage, Chloé could not be satisfied. She roamed everywhere clutching a bag of biscuits, even at night. We could never take the bag away; a lingering fear of hunger haunted her. Lucie found this aggravating, 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 own ego, magnified.
Arguments, quarrels, and offenses with Lucie became a constant, all because of 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 impossible. Yet my mother had warned me:
My son, its your choice, but I once saw Lucie with another man. Nothing lasting will happen with her. Shes elusive, cunning, and will cheat you before you notice.
When youre in love, obstacles disappear and happiness shines brilliantly. Lucie embodied my ideal. The first crack appeared when Chloé entered our home. Perhaps it was thanks to her that I finally saw the reality of my family. I was stunned by my wifes indifference toward the little girl.
I even entertained the thought of stopping loving Lucie, of detaching, but it felt impossible. A friend once gave me odd advice:
Listen, old man, if you want to cool off toward a woman, measure her with a seamstresss tape. Its an old saying.
Youre joking? I replied, puzzled.
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 take your measurements, I said.
She looked surprised: Am I getting a new dress?
Yes, I replied, carefully measuring her bust, waist, and hips.
When I finished, I returned to my friend and laughed at his joke, telling him I still loved her just the same.
Soon after, Chloé fell illa cold, fever, soft sobs, sniffling. She clutched her doll Léa, following Lucie everywhere. I was relieved to see her holding a doll instead of a biscuit bag.
My daughter loved constantly changing the dolls outfits, but today the doll stood naked, a sign that its owner felt weak and couldnt dress it. Lucie shouted:
Stop crying. I cant take it anymore! Go to bed!
Chloé squeezed the doll and kept sobbing, tears streaming. Suddenly Lucie snatched the doll from her hands, rushed to the window, flung it open, and hurled the doll outside in a fit of rage.
Mom, thats my favorite doll, Léa! Shell get cold outside! Can I get her? Chloé wailed, running toward the front door.
I rushed down to retrieve the doll. The elevator was out of service, so I raced down the stairs from the eighth floor. The doll hung 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 as if it were turning gray.
Lucies act had no justification. I entered Chloés room to find her kneeling beside the bed, head on the pillow, whimpering in sleep. I gently settled her back, placing 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 elegant empty shell.
My wife, it seems, got the message. We divorced. Chloé stayed with me; Lucie raised no objections.
Later, when I crossed paths with my exwife, she said with a hint of sarcasm, 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 able to voice the accusation without bitterness.
Lucie soon remarried a wealthy businessman.
My mother says, Your husband is lucky. That woman should never be a mother, my mother judged.
Chloé initially wept a lot for her missing mother, reaching out as far as she could. But my new wife, Elisabeth, won Chloés affection and warmed her little heart. The childs mother had abandoned her twice, something I could not have imagined.
Elisabeth, with endless tenderness and boundless patience, cared for Chloé and our son, Nicolas.
