I must have been 13 when my parents gathered us, my twin brother and I, to tell us that they were divorcing. It was a real thunderclap. The four of us were the ideal family, we lived in the countryside, in the Gard, in our upper middle class bubble, made of travel and good academic results. Despite the shock, I remember, at the time, having taken care not to take sides. I have always been reflected, it’s my way of being. I imagine that it was this attitude that led them to consider that they could speak to me as an adult. I found myself involved in their conflict, an actress of a heartbreak that did not concern me, taken to part on one side and the other.
After my father’s departure with another woman, my mother falls into depression. My brother and I are delivered to ourselves. My maternal grandparents come to settle at home and take possession of the premises: they make us eat, take us to school. But that’s not all. They are the main actors in this unhealthy game. During these few months that I have hated, they do everything to discredit our father, to rally to the maternal cause. They want at all costs to make me admit that it is him, the “villain” of history.
“Your father’s bastard”
Sometimes my grandfather tumbles into the living room, observe me pianoting on my computer, and calmly reminds me that my father is “a huge asshole”. He does not distinguish between the husband and the sire, he calls her “your father’s bastard”. I am a loyal kid, I defend him, I try to cut short the discussion. My grandfather does not care, he spits his gall. Sometimes my grandmother collects me by car after my extra-curricular activities. But before entering, she stops on the aisle and sermates me for an hour: I have to make “the right choice”, and I must not “forgive my father after seeing how much he makes my Mother “, this mother who,” Do you realize? “,” Takes antidepressants because of him “. This constant pressure, this lobbying, my mother does not see it: she does not come out of her bed anymore, and I only see her when I enter her room plunged into the dark in the morning, to kiss her before leaving at school.
Me, these grandparents, I hate them. I am not trying to understand them, I can only undergo their judgment, they who refuse to see our distress to my brother and me, considering only that of their daughter. In their eyes, I am half already spoiled, tarnished by my membership of “the other family”. They have neither indulgence nor benevolence towards me.
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