03

 -Hurry up Mila, we're going to be late!

 My daughter raises her nose from her bowl of muesli to glance at the clock. 7:45 a.m. She just looks at me as if I've lost my mind and plunges back into her reverie. I can't stand still. I barely slept all night, I ran my hands through my hair so much it felt like I stuck my fingers in an electrical outlet and knocked everything out trying to make breakfast . If I tend to be a little clumsy in normal times, my clumsiness is more than exacerbated on days of great stress. And today is typically a very stressful day.

 Mila is going back to primary school, the equivalent of primary school in France. No more days spent doing puzzles and writing your first name. This year, she will learn to read, write, count and so many other things. I know she has always been a good student but I have the impression that what awaits her now is on another level. And given my disastrous experience with the school system, I'm afraid she'll follow in my footsteps and drop out quickly.

 I take a deep breath to try to put my thoughts in place. My story has nothing to do with his. Maybe by dint of repeating this mantra to myself, it will eventually get into my skull? So far, anyway, it's been a failure. I distractedly pull up my glasses, looking around me. His midday snack is ready, his satchel too. His clean, ironed uniform awaits him after breakfast. The supplies we asked for are already stored in his kit. His shoes are polished. Everything is under control. Except maybe my anxiety.

 -Would you like a glass of orange juice?

 Mila puts her index finger and thumb together, waving her wrist in approval. I grab a glass and fill it with freshly squeezed juice. When I put it in front of her, it slips out of my hands and the liquid spills onto the table. I growl out loud to vent all my frustration. As I fervently mop the tablecloth, my daughter puts her hand on my bicep. His big black eyes question me silently. I stop immediately. She takes the opportunity to tie her little fingers to mine and guide me to the living room where she snuggles against me on the sofa.

 -Why are you so nervous dad this morning? Is it because of school?

 - Yes, I admitted a little embarrassed.

 -Looks like you're scared. But of what ? You think I'm going to suck, right?

 In his eyes, I read all his disappointment. And it breaks my heart.

 -Of course not my darling, I know very well that you will not be zero. You will manage like a chef. It's just that... I didn't have very good memories of my time at school. It's weird that it's your turn. And I don't want it to be hard for you like it was for me.

 -You know, if Ella is in my class, then I'm sure I'll have a good year.

 Ella has been his best friend since attending school. I also hope they will be together but normally, we shouldn't have any surprises. Our small village does not allow the opening of a multitude of classes.

 -You are right. I'm sure you two will work well together.

 My daughter hugs her arms tightly around my chest. I dig my nose into his hair as I hug him back. I really need to relax.

 -Dad ?

 She sits up to implore me with her puppy dog ​​look. Oh oh oh...

 -If you're really too worried, you can make me some blueberry muffins. I can't have a bad day if I eat one of your snack muffins!

 I burst out laughing, lightening a little the noose that has been compressing my chest since yesterday.

 -Obviously !

 Eyes sparkling with mischief, Mila returns to the kitchen to finish her breakfast. And like the impressionable father that I am, I'm already recapitulating the list of ingredients needed to make these famous muffins to check that I have everything I need in my cupboards.

 About thirty minutes later, I close the door behind us and we start walking for school. On the way, we follow in the footsteps of dozens of children in black and gray uniforms, accompanied by parents with tense smiles, all flowing in the same direction. It takes us no more than five minutes to reach the red and white building. With its sloping roof and black tiles, it blends in perfectly with the typically Celtic decor of our village. Mila finds her friend Ella, they jump into each other's arms with so much joy that my smile relaxes a little. My daughter signs how happy she is to find her and Ella does not waste a second to answer her with her hands, even if she is still a little clumsy sometimes.

 Mila has always been educated in a traditional school. I fought so that she was not relegated to a specialized establishment for the deaf and hard of hearing because, on the one hand, I did not want us to have to move and on the other hand, I thought it was important that she founded in an open social group, representative of the society in which she will evolve throughout her life. And I'm pretty happy with the result. She adapts to each interlocutor she meets. She always manages to make herself understood or to communicate.

 Ella's mother, who had gone away for a few moments to consult the lists, returns with a big smile. The girls are already jumping in all directions, delighted that their wish has been granted.

 "They're together," she confirms.

 The establishment does not accept an incalculable number of children but it divides them into classes of a maximum of fifteen pupils. This is a real plus for all these young people who are offered privileged learning conditions. Well, that's what the director promised me when I registered Mila in June.

 -Dad, my daughter calls out to me, catching my gaze. You can leave me now, I'm grown up, I can go to class on my own.

 -Out of the question ! It's your first day, I'm not leaving you at the gate.

 -Corn...

 -Let's go, I cut it without more ceremony.

 I rush into the crowd that has formed around the gate. A supervisor verifies the identity of each person wishing to enter the establishment. We patiently wait until our turn. Once past the control, we head to the first class of the main corridor. Ella and her mom precede us, chatting happily. Mila is silent but calm. She observes her new environment with great attention. His small hand gently squeezes mine.

 For my part, I do everything to hide my anxiety. I put on a smirk – which should probably look more like a tense grin – and I move forward quietly. When we enter the corridor, the yellowish light from the neon lights on the ceiling attacks my retinas. I pull up my glasses as a bulwark but my hand is shaking. I am ridiculous. The only dad stressed by the return to school of his six-year-old daughter!

 A young woman with long fair hair greets the students at the entrance to the classroom. I imagine it is the mistress. Mila locates her locker with a label showing her first name. She puts down her jacket, her satchel and her lunch. Then she turns to me and her gaze hides nothing from me. A mixture of excitement and apprehension twirls in his black eyes. I kneel down and run a hand over her long black hair that cascades over her shoulders. My other hand gently caresses the dull skin of her cheek to reassure her. I speak quietly to make sure she can read the words on my lips.

 -Everything will be alright. You are with Ella. I'll pick you up at 3 p.m. and you'll tell me everything, okay?

 -Okay, she signs without succeeding in hiding the jerk of her hands.

 -I love you.

 -I love you too dad.

 A kiss on the forehead and she turns to join her comrades. Her teacher offers a smiling hello to all the students who pass in front of her. I'm waiting for the hallway to empty out a little to introduce myself. The problem is, I hate doing this. I'm not really comfortable with people I don't know and my lack of confidence can quickly lead me to talk nonsense. So I worry about myself. I have no intention of making a fool of myself in front of my daughter's mistress.

 -Good Hello. II am the father of Mi-mila Perret. Excuse me for disturbing you, but I, uh I, well, I don't know if, if the principal warned you that, that my daughter was d-deaf and...

 -I am aware, she replies in a soft voice.

 My gaze trails to the ground. I feel silly in front of her and I'm already flushing.

 -Ah, okay, per-perfect. I... well, you, you can suddenly...?

 I don't even know how to finish my sentence. Damn, what a grotesque spectacle I offer him! It's exactly because of this kind of moment that I usually never approach anyone.

 -I was assigned to Mila's class because I speak sign language. Don't worry, your daughter will be able to follow like all the other students, I will be very attentive to that.

 -Okay, m-thanks, I mumbled before taking leave without giving him time to answer.

 I hurry out of this hallway before sinking deeper. When I'm nervous, I tend to stutter. And stuttering only makes me more nervous because I am well aware that I look like an idiot. But I can't control myself. This tic has followed me since childhood and I have never managed to get rid of it.

 As a child, I was the target of all the teasing in the schoolyard. The other kids had fun despising my skin color and my life in foster care just to force me to react, to speak in public. To stutter in front of them. To show them my weaknesses and give them something to ridicule me for several days. So I grew up becoming transparent. Not making waves was my watchword. I still live like that today. At the pub, I remain cloistered in my kitchen or behind the sink. I listen to conversations, I respond when someone talks to me, but I don't take center stage. I do not know how to do. I do not like it.

 Over the years I have made a few friends here. I go out every once in a while for a pint with Matthew, Jane, Erin, Thomas and Charlie. I always like to share an evening with them but I always remain slightly behind. I think I don't really know how to let others approach me anymore.

 It's lost in my memories that I head for the port. I often come here to clear my mind with the salty air. I like to watch the Galway hookers, these traditional Irish fishing boats, perfectly designed to brave the rough waters of the region. Their red sails and dark hull. The strength and tranquility that emanates from these boats. This morning, the sky is covered with gray clouds. The wind rushes into the hookers' sails. Passers-by do not linger on their way like yesterday. It is no longer the time to stroll, except for me who is not working today.

 The view of the bay calms the tumult of my thoughts. When I feel calmer again, I take a detour to the convenience store and then go home. I think about sweet ideas that I want to realize. Of course, I'm going to prepare the muffins that Mila asked me to do, but I'd also like to test new alliances to offer new pastries at tea time. I bring my ingredients back to the kitchen of the pub that I invest in to give free rein to my imagination. The hours go by to the rhythm of my lashes. Flour settles on my glasses as I push them up my nose. The sleeves of my shirt that I pulled up over my forearms are coated in the same white powder but I'm too focused to care. I trap a Joconde biscuit between two red fruit mousses while small praline meringues gild the pill. Abbi, who lives next door, sticks her head through the crack in the door to greet me.

 - Still cooking?

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