​The July Terrace: Where It All Truly Began

Last summer, time stood still.

It was planned, organized with the surgical precision that my profession demands. I had taken time off from May 20th to August 20th. Not for a vacation, but for a mission of the heart: supporting my mother toward her official date for medical assisance in dying, on June 11th.

At precisely 11:11 AM, she left us, leaving us with this mirror hour as a final sign of peace.

I spent three weeks in Beauce, at my parents' house. A week and a half before, to savor every second. A week and a half after, to support my father through the silence that follows the storm.

Then July arrived.

It was there, sitting on our terrace, between grief and a visceral need to rebuild, that it all clicked into place.

That realization was not a matter of chance.

In three years, death invited itself to our table three times, taking away the pillars of our lives. Between my mother-in-law's sudden passing on Christmas Eve morning, the tragic loss of a close friend, and conscious farewells to my mother, I ended up understanding that we do not own time; we only borrow it.

Under the July sun, faced with this obvious truth, I realized I no longer just wanted to analyze the world as it is; I wanted to create worlds where I could finally let my pen wander.

I had spent years analyzing facts, evidence, and raw reality. But that day, my novel was born. Not from a simple desire to write, but from a need for life, creation, and freedom, after having brushed against what truly matters.

P.S. Wondering why I chose this photo? My mother told us she would manifest herself in the form of a white butterfly. Ever since that day, I feel like she is watching over my writing. 🦋✨