I ask him how his mother is and she is not well.

I ask him how the mother is, because I know that she went to look after her for a few days, that she is very old.

He takes a blank sheet of paper. He is methodical, prudent, clean and tidy. He draws a staircase going down – perfect steps – and tells me: "The mother is here." And he writes the number 90 on the top step. "And the doctors told us that they haven't told her. down. "They told us that we can keep, but until when?"

I look at him full of sadness. He looks so polished, always, and his table is so tidy... In his profile picture he appears, with his two children, on top of a mountain. He helps me when I don't get paid for work and I can't make ends meet, he always tells me to have a pension plan or "who" "doesn't work when they're young." We don't know each other very well. Every time I go, every time I sit at that tidy table, he asks me to repeat my ID. "bay", unintentionally.

He doesn't have a father. His mother will soon be gone.

Feeling this, being the ear of this unknown acquaintance, who is also the one who lets me sit at the table and helps me when I have overdrafts (I'm the grasshopper in the story and I wish I were the ant), makes me think. of this who knows if friend and I would start to cry with joy and sorrow.