The afternoon stretched lazily over Brest, a warm wind amusing itself by rustling the branches in the garden. I was sitting on the terrace, facing the house of my childhood — the famous villa my parents had built as a monument to their success. Nothing had really changed: the white columns still just as pretentious, the ponds still too clean, the flowers still too aligned.
This house still awakens a host of memories in me, good and bad… especially those shared with my dear brother, when we would tumble down the marble corridors laughing, until Mom appeared, furious, with her eternal dishcloth in hand.
And then, there were those teenage evenings, when I had to sneak out to meet the girls. We went through the garage, waited for the guardian's car headlights to fade, then I hoisted myself onto the ivy-covered wall to reach the road. I knew every stone by heart. I still have a scar on my knee, a memory of a memorable fall on the gravel — freedom always came at a price in this house.
My gaze slid towards the grand interior staircase, that stone monster I had climbed a thousand times, sometimes barefoot, sometimes in heels, often running. Majestic, yes… but stiff as a promise regretted as soon as it's made. I imagined my parents, one day, old and creaky, stuck at the top, unable to descend without the help of a crane or superhuman courage.
The scene made me smile.
Life is a bit like that: you spend your youth building stairs, and your old age cursing them. What a delicious — and cruel — irony.
Despite the host of servants at her service, she insisted on preparing certain dishes herself, especially on weekends. Three times a week, after her yoga session, she put on her apron like a domestic heroine, convinced that stirring a sauce brought her closer to simplicity.
We had always known her this way: at home, scented with vanilla and comfort, surrounded by flowers and simmering dishes. She has never worked a single day in her life — not out of laziness, but because life never forced her to. Since Dad took over Grandpa's company, she thrives in this role she invented for herself: that of a quiet, graceful, always impeccable woman. She maintains the facade of happiness, packs the skeletons in the closets and pretends the smell can never come back up.
The terrace had been set up as if for a formal lunch: immaculate white tablecloth, fine porcelain dishes, crystal glasses aligned perfectly. Even the sun seemed invited to the table, filtering through the glass roof and dancing on the silverware.
Meryem, the head cook, entered, followed by Sonia and Claire, the housemaids, all dressed in their impeccable beige uniforms. Meryem, straight as an orchestra conductor, carried a large silver tray where a rare steak sat enthroned, topped with a parsley butter whose scent made one involuntarily salivate. Behind her, Sonia brought a steaming tureen from which the deep aroma of a kidney broth escaped, seasoned with red wine, caramelized onions, and melting potatoes.
The air was fragrant with a warm, greedy mix of meat, salt, and fresh herbs. They arranged the dishes in front of us with the precision of a well-rehearsed ballet. I observed the scene in silence, amused to note that, in this house, even the meal still and always resembled a ceremony.
I was sitting to the left of my father, who was comfortably settled in the center, as a good head of the family, with my mother to his left, as if to complete this perfect triangle of propriety and exchanged glances.
Albert Dang — an architect by training, a fifty-something with severe looks and measured gestures — cut his steak with the precision of a cutting line on a blueprint: sharp, determined, almost geometric. His facial features only faintly betrayed the handsome man he once was. People often said I looked like him… if so, thank you for the beauty, but for his frivolous and pretentious attitude of yesteryear, I say no. His small nervous tic at the corner of his eye appeared every time he wanted to weigh his words or regain control of the conversation. His upright posture and his voice, steady yet firm, commanded respect, or at least the appearance of perfect control, a uniform he seemed to put on without ever taking off. All these people around this table seem to be wearing invisible uniforms…
I grabbed my fork and started eating hastily, as if the food could evaporate before my eyes, yet feigning a tranquility I didn't feel, all while watching the scene like a movie I had seen too many times.
— You still have such an appetite, eat slowly, Babe.
— Okay, Mom, I missed your cooking, you know?
— Nothing prevents you from coming back home, right, Albert? She gave him a look as if for him to confirm.
My father straightened up, put down his cutlery with a sharp click.
— Just come from time to time for your mother.
— Of course. You hear that?
My mother glanced at me; I nodded in response, and she smiled, satisfied with this little silent complicity. She was still smiling at this man who was my father as if nothing had happened.
I pinched my lips slightly and continued eating. The gestures around the table were measured, the objects — cutlery, glasses, plates — marking the tempo of a conversation that could shift. Everything was calm for now; I chewed, watching the shadows dance on the tablecloth with a distracted eye.
— Well then, Miss Dang, is school going well?
— Yes, soon we will have our midterms.
— Oh! Good, experimental cinema…
He pronounced those words with a hint of contempt. The knife fell, clattering, and his tone took on that emphasis he liked to give to sharp truths.
— Experimental cinema, that's exactly what I'm studying, I said, calmness in my mouth.
— You have made a career choice that will surely not bring you much.
— Are you talking about money?
— Without money, we are nothing.
He raised his voice without shouting, but just enough to make me jump. His gaze, fixed and incisive, seemed to want to measure every reaction on me.
The same scene again… The words change, but the script remains identical. If I had left this house, it was precisely for this: to escape these continuous arguments, this tone that always ends up snapping. My brother had at least also fled this turmoil and gone to study abroad — lucky him. Maybe I could have endured a little longer if he were here. But alone, away from this house, I could finally breathe.
— If I had made a career choice based on passion, you would not have such a peaceful and tranquil life. You wouldn't have the desire to go on vacation whenever you feel like it, without ever counting, nor the desire to attend the most prestigious schools, to own a credit card credited every month, nor to drive outrageously expensive cars.
— I don't drive a car, I said in a neutral tone.
— That's your choice… But are you missing anything at all?
He paused, staring at me intently.
— Your brother is the only one who makes me proud; he is studying medicine to become an exceptional surgeon.
I lowered my head, silent. Yes, he is the perfect model. I deviate from the plan…
My mother put down her napkin with a controlled snap and looked up; her voice, soft yet firm, weighed like a written instruction.
— Oh no, Albert, I forbid you to speak to Babe like that! My daughter is entitled to her share of the inheritance. I, myself, have a say. You seem to forget that, certainly, you went to college… in architecture, even — you may be a renowned architect — but my very dear father-in-law, during his lifetime, refused to give you anything, a very stingy man claiming that you yourself needed to learn how to fish, he always said. My father entrusted you with the company because he trusted you; that does not give you the right to treat his family like this. My daughter will study what she wants and will receive her share; end of debate, Albert.
My father's knife remained suspended mid-stroke, as if the steel hesitated to complete the gesture. His breathing became short, abrupt. I swallowed, peacefully, watching the scene unfold: my mother's steady hand, the measured tone, those words that were not just words but reminders of a more solid order — the documents, the signatures, the silent alliances she knew how to wield.
— Marguerite! Don't talk to me like that in front of my child! It is your fault that she allows herself to be haughty and to choose, choose whatever suits her. She is spoiled rotten because of you! I let her go because she wanted to, so I let her choose her field… damn it! You keep quiet when I try to educate her and make her realize her grotesque mistake. Poverty doesn't scare her because she has always lived in opulence.
He pointed his finger at me — a sharp, threatening gesture. I only briefly looked up, still chewing, making my indifference a small flag.
— I should cut off your funds so you understand your mistake!
My mother inhaled, placed her open palm on the tablecloth as one affixes a signature: clear, definitive. Her retort was contained, but every word carried the density of an act.
— Enough, Albert! You dare speak to her like that after everything she experienced in her childhood? You should be ashamed.