"And your mother saw it all happen?" say I.
"Mom was actually late in fleeing to the church, and then she saw it surrounded, so she hid in some bushes. It was one of the Canadian peacekeeping soldiers that got hold of her and almost bodily dragged her to his jeep, where he took her to General Dallaire. I must have been twelve when she started talking to me about it. I think she must have figured that this would be important in helping to form me as a young man. I only wanted her to shut up and never mention it again, but over and over for the next couple of years, sometimes that was all she could talk about. I turned into her confessor, her psychiatrist, her fucking counsellor. No mother should ever inflict that kind of burden on her little boy, and that is exactly what she did to me. We never did have a normal mother and son relationship. We were, what they call, enmeshed. I was her friend and confidant. And in a way her protector. She would often break down crying while talking about my father, but I let her do it. She needed this, and she needed me to be with her while it was happening. I spent some time seeing a therapist, and we concluded together that despite the toxicity of our arrangements, that that was still the best of all outcomes."
"How is she now?" says Carl.
"Happy. So fucking happy", says Francois. "I have never seen her so happy before. Jun was just what she needed. She smiles now, tells jokes, awfully funny jokes, laughs a lot. Finally..."
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