Ma mère croyait posséder ma maison, jusqu’à l’ouverture du dossier noir

dans son berceau, en bonne santé, pendant qu’elle rangeait les pinceaux.

Je l’ai regardée fermer doucement la porte, sans clé, sans verrou extérieur, sans personne de l’autre côté pour décider si elle avait le droit de sortir.

Elle s’est tournée vers moi.

« Maintenant, c’est de nouveau chez nous.

»

Pour la première fois depuis mon retour de déploiement, j’ai cru vraiment cette phrase.

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