Camille felt as if the ground was giving way beneath her.
— You thought I didn’t want to get to know you?
Manon’s eyes filled with tears.
— At 14, I hated you for that.
Céline slapped the table with the flat of her hand.
— That’s enough!
Master Vasseur opened a third shirt.
— André thought that this version existed.
She took out four pink envelopes.
Camille immediately recognized the faded stickers on the first one.
She was 8 years old when she wrote it.
“Manon, do you still love horses? I miss you.”
Another one was sent the following year.
Then one more.
They all bore the same note: mail refused or returned to sender.
Manon placed her fingers on her first name, written in a childlike hand.
— You refused his letters?
“We wanted to avoid disturbing you,” replied Céline.
Manon raised her head.
— You told me she didn’t want me.
— You were little.
— Her too!
The scream echoed all the way up the stairs.
For the first time, Camille understood that her parents had not just abandoned a daughter.
They had constructed a lie solid enough to prevent their two children from comparing their memories.
But Master Vasseur had not finished.
André had kept a file entitled “Céline and Thierry — aids”.
Garage bills.
Rents.
Dental expenses for Manon.
Loan repayments.
Over the years, André had given them or had paid directly on their behalf nearly €41,000.
Camille felt her stomach clench.
— So you were in contact with him.
Celine looked away.
– From time to time.
— For 17 years?
Silence.
— You were asking him about me?
– Of course.
Master Vasseur looked up.
— Very rarely.
Celine turned towards her.
— You weren’t present for every call.
— André was taking notes because after several years, you started to say that he was preventing you from contacting Camille.
She took out a few pages.
On several occasions, André had suggested:
“Camille is here. Would you like to speak to her?”
The answer was almost always the same.
Later.
Not today.
She is likely to be devastated.
Later, it had lasted 17 years.
Manon covered her mouth.
Camille, for her part, was still not crying.
The pain was too precise to express.
Then came the document that explained the moving truck.
Eight months before his death, André had received an email from Céline.
She was officially worried about his health.
But the second half of the message was about the house.
“Thierry and I are already thinking about our return to Angers when you’re no longer here. Manon could take the upstairs room. Camille is an adult now, she’ll be able to find an apartment. Send us the documents concerning the house so we can plan ahead.”
Camille reread the sentence.
André was still breathing.
He still gardened some mornings.
And his own mother was already preparing for his expulsion.
— You had decided to throw me out even before he died?
Celine turned pale.
— You were 21 years old.
— So what?
— You were old enough to live alone.
Camille pointed to Manon.
— She was 19 when you booked her a room here.
No one answered.
Master Vasseur then explained what André had done.
Several years earlier, when Céline had received significant help from her father to pay off some of her debts, an inheritance agreement had been drawn up by a notary. Having received separate legal advice, she had agreed that a specific future transfer of assets to Camille could not be challenged solely on the grounds that it would reduce her own rights to the house.
At the time, Céline had signed.
She had obtained the money she needed.
She probably never believed that André would go through with it.
11 months before his death, after the email concerning Camille’s expulsion, he had signed the deed.
He had retained the usufruct.
Camille had not attended any of the meetings.
A doctor had attested to his cognitive abilities.
A second notary had met with André alone in order to verify his consent.
The decision was neither improvised nor secretly dictated by Camille.
“Why didn’t he tell me anything?” she asked.
Master Vasseur’s voice softened.
— Because he knew you would try to stop him to avoid a family war.
This time, tears flowed.
Thierry pushed his chair back.
— We will contest this.
— That’s your right.
— She influenced him! She lived with him!
Camille raised her head.
— I was 5 years old when I arrived here.
— That has nothing to do with it.
— Yes. It has everything to do with it.
Thierry opened his mouth.
Manon beat him to it.
— Stop.
He looked at her, stunned.
— Don’t get involved in that.
— You’ve lied to me my whole life. So now I’m getting involved in this.
Céline grabbed her bag.
— This house belongs to my family.
Camille wiped her cheeks.
For the first time since their arrival, her voice did not tremble.
— I belong to this family too. You simply removed me from your story.
Céline couldn’t find anything to say in response.
The movers left without having loaded a single piece of furniture.
Manon stays.
Sitting on the edge of a chair, she still held the pink envelope written 14 years earlier.
— I’m sorry for what I said about the room.
Camille gave a strangled laugh.
— Is that really what worries you?
— Non.
Manon looked at the letter.
— I’m sorry I thought you didn’t want me.
Camille could not forgive him for something she had never chosen to believe.
But she also couldn’t create in a few minutes a relationship that 17 years had destroyed.
They simply stayed there.
Then they cried.
Six weeks later, Céline and Thierry took their case to the judicial court.
They argued that André, old and ill, had been influenced by Camille.
The procedure lasted for months.
