If my fortune can’t buy my son the freedom to choose his own path, then what’s the point of it?
My parents are no better—mortified that the heir to the de Valois name shows no desire to expand the family fortune, as though what we already possess isn’t more than enough. For them—and for Simone—ambition is measured solely by the weight of a portfolio.
I’ve tried to teach Aubert that true ambition is about finding a way to be content—devoting yourself to something you’re passionate about, something that makes the long hours worthwhile. If that’s journalism for him, then so be it.
I like making money. I like my job. So, why shouldn’t he?
“Come on, Papa.” Aubert is already sliding toward the lift. “Let me show you how it’s done.”
I smile at his cockiness. “You know I skied competitively, don’t you?”
“That was years ago,” he dismisses.
“Are you calling me old?”
He grins at me. “Oui?*, I think I am.”
“We’ll see.”
We ski for an hour, carving clean lines down the powder, and by the time we stop for hot chocolate at the mid-slope café, his cheeks are red, his hair plastered to his forehead.
“Let us say it was a tie,” he offers as he blows steam from his cup.
“You lost, son. You’ve got to learn to accept that I’m a superior skier.”
He snorts.
“So, how is thebacpreparation going?” I ask.
Aubert is inTerminale, the last year oflycée, working toward thebaccalauréat. His track ishumanités—history, literature, and languages—perfect for the journalism studies he insists he wants. Thebacis brutal: weeks of written and oral exams, and I know he’s working hard to be ready.
“I’ve been thinking.” He purses his lips and gives me a measured look. “After thebac, I want to go to the states…California.”
I raise a brow. I had a feeling this was coming.
He shrugs. “I need new perspectives, and I can’t get that if I stay in France or even Europe. And”—he pauses dramatically—“the Lakers.”
I chuckle. “Ah, that’s the reason you want togo to California.” My son is a basketball fan. He plays, and he streams every NBA game he can.
“Specifically, Los Angeles.”
I nod. “I presume you’ll be looking at UCLA, USC?”
He frowns. “How do you know?”
“Maybe I have been looking into schools in the United States…and specifically Los Angeles for you.”
He smiles wide, and that’s all I need to feel good about the debacle of my marriage. My son. Determined, restive, unwilling to be boxed in.
“Merci?*, Papa?*.”
“It’s my job.” I lean back and take a deep breath. “But Los Angeles is far…a thirteen-hour flight from Paris.”
“I know. But maybe distance is good.” He hesitates, then adds, “Especially with Maman.”
Aubert stares into his cup as his words hang in the cold air.
Simone and I separated two years ago, started talking about it three years ago—and the truth is we’ve been fighting all of Aubert’s life.
