During the school year, Grégoire lives at an institute in Paris. To have him closer to us during summer vacation, we arranged for him to stay at a facility just 60 kilometers from our home for the month of August. This way we could visit him more often.
Grégoire is an autistic child—he has serious difficulty communicating with others—of the kind that the American doctor Bruno Bettelheim treats and writes about in Chicago.
He became blocked in his mental development when very young. Physically he is normal. But little by little, instead of staying locked away inside himself and cut off from the world, he has slowly opened up. Now he takes much more interest in people and things. He doesn't speak yet, but he expresses himself in other ways—gradually, and with eyes that are very expressive and intentional.
My husband and I went to see him one beautiful, sunny morning. He was outside in the fenced garden with other children who were psychotic.
We went in and called to him softly. He gave us a big smile and came right over. We kissed him and sat down under a tree to talk and sing his favorite songs together. His joy was our joy. His intelligent, affectionate face, full of sweetness and light when he saw us, made us happy.
We sang and talked like this for about half an hour. Gradually we noticed the other children drawing near, very cautiously and shyly. At one point I spoke to a girl who was closest and invited her to sit with us. But she hid behind a tree, too overwhelmed. I said nothing more. Then, a few minutes later, another girl came over to us on her own.
My husband and I kept singing. Within a quarter hour, nearly all the children were gathered around us, listening to our songs.
We were moved, because we understood how much all these children need affection. Whatever their handicap—and even more because of it.
Perhaps these children felt the love that binds my husband, Grégoire, and me together, and they wanted to be part of it for a little while.
They didn't want to leave. They didn't want to leave Grégoire and his little friends who, without saying a word, stayed so close to us and listened with such intensity.
They needed us. They needed our presence, our time, our affection, our availability.
But we had another life waiting for us at home: Grégoire's little sister and brother.
We left with a deep sense of longing, knowing we could never do enough for our handicapped children.
Albine, 1975