Dear Mathieu, dear Thomas,
When you were little, I was sometimes tempted, at Christmas, to give you a book, a Tintin book for example. We could have talked about it together afterward. I know Tintin well; I've read them all several times.
I never did. It was no use, you didn't know how to read. You'll never know how to read. Until the end, your Christmas presents will be blocks or little cars...
Until this day, I have never spoken about my two boys. Why? Was I ashamed? Afraid people would feel sorry for me? It was all a bit mixed up. I think, above all, it was to escape the terrible question: "What are they doing?"
Now that time is running out, the end of the world is near, and I am becoming more and more biodegradable, I have decided to write them a book.
So that they are not forgotten, so that all that remains of them is not just a photo on a disability card. Perhaps to express my remorse. I was not a very good father. Often, I could not stand them. With them, you had to have the patience of an angel, and I am not an angel.
When we talk about children with disabilities, we adopt an air of circumstance, like when we talk about a catastrophe. For once, I would like to try to talk about them with a smile. They made me laugh with their silliness, and not always unintentionally.
Thanks to them, I had advantages over parents of normal children. I didn't have to worry about their studies or career paths. We didn't have to hesitate between science and literature. We didn't have to worry about what they would do later; we quickly knew it would be: nothing.
And most importantly, for many years I benefited from a free car sticker. Thanks to them, I was able to drive big American cars.
Jean-Louis Fournier
