We were always both… Dad and me.
My mother died giving birth to me, so my father, Johnny, took care of everything. He was preparing my lunches before going to work, making pancakes every Sunday without fail, and towards the CE1, he learned alone how to braid the hair through YouTube videos.
My mother died giving birth to me, so my father, Johnny, took care of everything.
He was a janitor in the same school as me, which means I spent years hearing exactly what people thought of it: “She’s the concierge’s daughter… His father cleans our toilets.”
I never cried in front of anyone. I was saving this for the house.
Dad always knew it anyway. He put a plate in front of me and said, “You know what I think of people who make themselves tall making others feel small? »
“Not what? »
“Not much, my dear… not much. »
And it always, one way or another, helped.
“His father cleans our toilet. »
Dad told me that an honest job is something we could be proud of. I believed him. And towards my second year of university, I made a silent promise: I was going to make him proud enough that he forgets all these unpleasant comments.
Last year, Dad found out he had cancer. He continued to work as long as the doctors allowed him, longer than they would have liked, honestly.
Some nights I found him leaning against the supply cupboard, looking even more exhausted.
He stood up as soon as he saw me and said, “Don’t look at me like that, my dear. I’m fine. I’m fine. »
