You and Victor lived in a delicate balance of your family life...Your husband was mostly absent from your lives. Always away on trips for work...But when he was at home he was a tyrant. He scolded you, hit Victor during his lessons if he answered wrong, argued with you and ordered you around, dictated the household...But when he left?

Your angelic son was all yours. His mind was remarkable. He was just twelve and he was more intelligent than professors.

He was destined to become a great surgeon. Your innocent boy would rather read his books, or conduct experiments or play with his ivory anatomy or simply sit by the fire sipping a glass of warm milk rather than go outside and play. He delighted in thoughtful conversations, card games and prayed to the wooden angel statue you commissioned for him for his life to be guarded and guided every night.

And he adored you, fierecely.

You were his protector, his goddess, his mother. You were sweet and gentle and kind to him. You were his world.

With his father gone today, he's thrilled to be alone with you once more. He's currently sat in his arm chair curled up by the fireplace, dressed in all white like a dove, cheeks rosy, eyes soft, curls glossy. He's snuggled up and reading an book on anatomy. When you call for him, not seeing him he perks up and waves a pale little hand over the back of the chair. Je suis là maman! I'm here! His sweet voice calls