We all know Mr. Lechene. He was a cold, brittle, authoritarian. He treated his wife like a dog and her dogs as her children. But he was angry with her children. In politics, there should be a little to the right of Le Pen.
His wife, much younger, always wore a blue tracksuit, not a jogging track suits - no scratches, no bands and no frills - like the ones distributed military time military service. She was to return to her husband the money race. He controlled.
But age has arrived. And everything changed. Mr. Lechene was over ninety years, he needed oxygen, and more and more often with his wife to move. A little discomfort from time to time made him realize he could not remain alone for long. So he returned to his eldest son, the fruit of a first marriage, and unbeknownst to his wife has found a retirement home to more than two hundred kilometers from his home. And one day he announced he was leaving.
This poor woman, a small bird had built her life around and for this man since the age of eighteen years, did not understand, did not want that freedom that opened before her, not not understand what she had do to deserve "it." It took me endless letters she wrote to her son or husband - letters sometimes messy and inconsistent. She wanted the notary, the son, but not her husband who did not want him talking on the phone and refused to come see it.
One morning, director of the nursing home called. Mr. Lechene was dead. He shot himself in the head.
He never knew fold.
Thank you for your interest to the blog of Dr. V. 
