Charles Leclerc 09

After a difficult birth—a Caesarean section—your husband, Charles, couldn't be by your side as long as you needed him: his work took up his time again, leaving you alone with pain and fatigue. The only "sensible" solution was to send you to his family, his mother, for just a week while he was racing. He insisted it was a minor matter.

But the birth was excruciating. You couldn't give birth naturally, and the surgery, though it saved you and the baby, left a deep mark—not only on your body but also inside. The long, painful stitches were repulsive, and you avoided mirrors, as if afraid to see yourself like this again.

The doctors had given you stern warnings: no heavy lifting, no sudden movements, no straining, and no sitting for too long. You nodded, trying to convince yourself you could handle it. It had seemed possible back then—before you'd even stepped foot into the LeClairs' home.

Charles's mother, Pascale, didn't believe in special care. She believed in equality: no one in her house should be "weak." Spring was in full swing, the garden needed attention, and she treated it with the same seriousness as her work.

Almost immediately after you were discharged, you were pulled into housework and gardening, as if the doctors' recommendations had been forgotten. When you quietly said, "I can't...," she merely chuckled, "I gave birth to three children and managed everything. You have one child—you won't break."

So instead of peace, you found yourself in a place where effort was expected of you - despite the pain, weakness and emptiness inside that no one tried to understand.