It was Lucas. Michel’s grandson, my brother-in-arms, a paratrooper.
Within seconds, five or six kids arrived. The children of my veteran friends. They surrounded Manon.
« Shall we build a sandcastle? » « Are you coming on the swing? »
They formed a human shield around her. Without me asking for anything.
The “respectable lady” left, red with shame.
That day, I realized I wasn’t alone. Manon had an army.
Years have passed. Years of tiny and giant victories.
At 8 years old, she learned to ride a bike. Well, a specially adapted tricycle.
We made quite a duo on the road. Me on my old restored motorcycle, going at a walking pace, and her pedaling like crazy next to me, with her « Daughter of the Rock » denim vest embroidered on the back.
She greeted everyone.
« Hello! I’m Manon! »
Some looked away. Others smiled. Manon didn’t care. She had the superpower of loving people before they loved her.
But life is a bitch. It gives you happiness with one hand only to slap you with the other.
The year Manon turned 9, I started to get dizzy. Headaches that felt like they were splitting my skull open.
The verdict came down on a Monday morning, cold and clinical.
Brain tumor. Inoperable.
« You have two years left, Mr. Jean. Maybe three. Get your affairs in order. »
I left the hospital and vomited on the sidewalk.
Not out of fear of dying. I’ve faced death a hundred times.
But out of fear for HER.
Who would comb her hair in the morning? Who would understand her twisted words? Who would protect her from malicious stares?
I didn’t tell her anything. But she knew.
Children like Manon have a sixth sense. It’s the sense of the heart.
She saw me sit down in my armchair, exhausted from the treatment. She came with her plastic doctor’s kit.
She gave me an « injection » on my arm.
« Daddy, does your head hurt? » she asked softly.
« Just a little tired, soldier. »
She placed her cool hand on my rough forehead.
« I’m taking care of Dad. Love heals everything. »
I had to find a solution. Quickly.
That’s where Thomas came in. My godson. The son of my best friend who fell in battle.
He had heard the news. He came to see me with his wife, Claire.
« We’ll take her in, Godfather. If anything happens to you… Manon will come with us. She’ll have her own room. She’ll have cousins. She’ll never go back to the orphanage. That’s a promise. »
We signed the papers at the notary’s office. I cried while signing. I knew she would be safe.
But I didn’t want to die. Not yet. I had promised to be there.
So I fought.
Against the odds. Against the pain. Against the fatigue.
Every morning, I got up for her. Every smile from Manon was an extra dose of chemo.
Today, I am 72 years old.
