Eight days after he buried his mother, Camille attends her father’s wedding with her aunt. But behind smiles and alliances, an unexpected truth is about to burst.
It is believed that there is a bottom of grief.
We think the worst is the uniformed policeman on the doorstep. The words “car accident.” His father’s strangled cry.
We’re wrong.
The bottom of the abyss is seeing his father, eight days later, in a clear suit in the garden, ready to marry your mother’s sister.
My name is Camille. I was thirty when my mother, Isabelle, died.
The days that followed were blurred: faded flowers, dishes brought by neighbors, my aunt Sophie crying louder than everyone else.
Three days after the funeral, she already had a flawless manicure.
Eight days after my mother died, she married my father.
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