My dad's beautiful stories

I was a little girl without history, happy and loved, with a dad and a mom. They loved me with all their heart, I'm sure of it. I always regretted not having a little brother or a little sister. My parents said to me: "No, because you will have to share your room and your toys". But I was ready to share everything I had ... My dad told me beautiful stories. But finally, it's not just me that he told stories.

He had always said that he had made a career with the army and that, disgusted, he had resigned. All his stories were windy. But I'm not even sure he really did not believe it. At his death, it was by chance that I learned the whole truth. If I had not discovered certain elements, I am not at all convinced that my mother would have found the courage to tell me more. When my parents met, my father was married and my mother did not know it. She did not learn it until after she was pregnant. My father divorced when I was one year old to remarry my mother. In kindergarten, my name was Charlotte C. Then in primary school without explanations, I became Charlotte S.

My mother taught in a Catholic school. At the time, it was out of the question for a woman to have a child without being married. And I paid the price. On the "advice" of the one who was my godfather, a priest, my mother took a career break of a few months. She lived in hiding to finally give birth "under X". She abandoned me! I then spent my first three months of life in a nursery. My mother adopted me later. When they were married, it was my father's turn to recognize me as his daughter. I then pass in the eyes of all as their adopted daughter. For all yes, except for me who do not know it! None of my mother's brothers and sisters are in the news. Growing up, I look a lot like him. His siblings start asking questions and that's the total break with the family.

These two incredible secrets crossed - the family that is told that I am an adopted child but remains puzzled and I who know nothing at all - have survived until the death of my father. I am thirty years old and already three children. It's terrible as history. All the foundations on which I built my life are collapsing. But still, I have incredible strength and I stay up. That said, I always felt that there were unspoken, hidden things of grown-ups ... They made me believe anything. You will now understand why for me the truth is essential. I hate lies and storytellers to deceive those who listen to them in good faith.

My father was a mythomaniac. He had created another life than his, no doubt more beautiful. And even in his coffin, he made his family, his friends and all those who wanted to hear him believe how great he was. But in fact, he had a very mundane life with successes and a lot of failures too. As for my mother, as usual, she let herself be sucked. If I had been in his case, between my job and my child, I could have made only one choice. I would never have left my baby in the arms of strangers even for a short time. Whatever it cost me! These last words are even more evocative for me today because I am now my mother's age at the time. I have three beautiful children that I could never have given up.

It's very hard. And yet, I know that I am strong and that I will be able to pass over. It took me five years to talk to a psychologist. It did me a lot of good. I could not mention this story with strangers because I felt shame. But finally, it made me move forward. I realized that finally I am not for anything in this story. As for my mother, she continues to position herself as a victim. For her, it was my father's fault that took him by boat and all those who could (badly) advise her. For my part, even if materially she has always been there to help me, I have not forgiven her yet ...

It's so violent. Was I left on her belly at birth? Who cared for me? What are the first looks I have seen? Who did I make my first smiles?


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