An unexpected quest
The next day, after a sleepless night, I went to the Nantes civil registry office, Place Louis XVI. My hands were shaking as I presented the book to the clerk. She looked at me, intrigued. She typed a few words on her keyboard.
“The person you are looking for is indeed called Clémence D. She made a request for access to her origins in 2001, but never received a response.”
I’m overwhelmed. This name, this face. A daughter I carried. A life I refused to live. Out of fear, out of shame, out of obligation. But today, it’s different. I want to know. I want to find her again.
An address, a hope
Thanks to a kind social worker, I finally get an address. Clémence lives in Nantes, in the Chantenay district, not far from my home. I spend two days wondering if I should take the plunge. And then, one Sunday morning, I decide.
I leave a letter in his box. Not a grand declaration, no. Just a few simple words:
“I think I’m the one you’re looking for. If you want to meet me, I’m at Café Penché, every Monday at 10 a.m. — Aline.”
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