Dearest François

The crickets and toads united in a jovial nighttime symphony on that balmy summer evening. Carmela sat in her room, immersed in her book as she often did, hoping for a night free from confrontation with her father. Even with the light off and herself tucked into bed, she knew it didn’t always deter him from barging in. She winced as she heard the floor of the hallway creak under his step—the ice cubes clinking into a glass, the cap unscrewing from the bottle. His muttered profanities were a blur of vile words she tried to block out.

Alcohol was the demon who possessed her father, digging its claws deeper into him with each passing year. Carmela had long since learned to cope with her bleak reality, having no family or friends to turn to—her father had seen to that. But still, nearly every night, tears escaped her, despite the desensitization. The rage, the broken things scattered across the house, and the objects thrown at her—it all felt like a cruel and relentless rhythm she couldn’t escape. Once, she’d been a straight-A student, but those nights of being yanked from her sleep, her homework torn to pieces, seemed to erase everything that once mattered to her.

And then, the demon would leave. By morning, her father would be sober, as if the night’s horrors were just a fever dream, and he’d crown himself the world’s greatest father. A single father for fifteen years, one who worked hard, kept a roof over their heads, and sometimes even managed to provide food. In those moments, the anxiety, terror, and sorrow she carried seemed so unreasonable. These mornings were the hardest. She loved the sober man—the kind, humorous man—but hated the drunk one, the one who twisted her sense of self. If she loved the sober version and loathed the other, what exactly did that make her feelings toward him?

Her reverie was shattered by the sound of angry thudding against her bedroom door. She lay still, hoping he'd think she was asleep, a strategy that had failed more times than she could count. She had even locked her door once, only to have him retrieve a spare key and shout at her for hours. The door flew open, the light switch flipped, flooding the room with an unforgiving brightness. Carmela pulled the blanket over her head like a shield, as if she could vanish into it.

But the blanket was torn away, and she was yanked upright by her hair. Her father’s cruel tirade began immediately, a stream of demeaning words that seemed to stretch on forever. When he finally retreated, he spat in her face and violently swept his arm across her desk, sending her belongings crashing to the floor. The house shook when he slammed his door, retreating to the other side. Carmela ran to the bathroom, splashing cold water on her face in a futile attempt to erase the sting of his cruelty. She slid down the bathroom wall, sinking to the floor as the tears flowed freely. It took several long minutes before she could pull herself back together.

Quietly, she slipped out the back door, praying her father had finally passed out. She scurried toward the barn, her sanctuary. The building was weathered, with gaps in its walls, plants creeping through, and a few trickles of water from the roof, but she loved it all the same. She smiled when she saw a small toad hopping along inside. She approached him slowly, and, as if sensing her, he paused but didn’t flinch. Gently, she cupped him in her hands, her heart lifting at the sight of him.

The toad was less than two inches long, with exquisite black, white, and grey markings. His small black eyes, partially covered by a golden eyelid, gave him a regal air. His tiny mouth seemed perpetually curled in a scowl that almost made him appear French.

"François," she whispered, and for a moment, the toad’s expression seemed to soften, his mouth curling into something like a smile.

But then the barn door crashed open.

"What in the hell are you doing?" Her father bellowed, his eyes landing on the toad. Without hesitation, he lunged toward her, yanking the creature from her hands.

"NO!" she cried, but he squeezed the fragile creature in his fist before hurling it with brutal force against the barnyard wall. "You’ll be next," he threatened before stalking back toward the house.

Carmela ran to where the toad had landed, heart pounding. She found him trembling in the corner, his tiny body battered but still alive.

"François," she whispered, gathering him into her hands. "I’m so sorry." Her voice broke as she looked down at his scared face and the liquid near his eyes that seemed to mimic tears. She could hardly bear to see his pain.

"I’m sorry," she repeated, kissing his tiny head gently.

The next morning, Carmela awoke with a start to the sound of her alarm. She blinked, her eyes struggling to adjust to the unfamiliar surroundings. She sat up and gasped. The room was vast, rich with luxury—exquisite statues and ornate furniture filled the space. She padded quietly to the window and rubbed her eyes in disbelief. The Eiffel Tower shimmered in the distance, and the Paris skyline stretched out before her, breathtaking and grand.

Surely, this was a dream.

She picked up a delicate piece of stationary from the nightstand:

Hope you will meet me for dinner tonight at Nouvelle Vie.

—Your Dearest François

Before she had time to process the words, she found herself walking the streets of Paris, dressed in a lavish maroon gown, the finest she had ever worn. As she passed smiling faces and quaint cafes, the scents of fresh pastries filled the air. She didn’t have time to admire the scene before she spotted the elegant sign of Nouvelle Vie. Her heart pounded as she hesitantly entered.

The café was bustling, with servers gliding gracefully between tables, delivering plates of food that looked like works of art.

"Bonjour!" a handsome gentleman in a delicate beret greeted her from across the room.

"My Carmela," he whispered as he approached, enfolding her in a warm embrace.

"François? How…?" She couldn’t finish the thought.

"We don’t have time for such questions," he said, his eyes sparkling. "There are more important matters at hand." He gestured to the table set for two. "It’s time you set yourself free."

"What do you mean?"

"You already know." He smiled gently, but there was something more resolute in his tone.

Carmela hesitated, looking down at the table. "If this is about my father… it’s complicated."

A server arrived with two steaming plates of vibrant ratatouille. "Mademoiselle, monsieur. Votre ratatouille végétale."

"Wow." Carmela couldn’t help but marvel at the culinary masterpiece before her. "I’m not used to seeing food like this."

François’s smile was tender. "I know. After a life of junk food, and sometimes nothing at all, I wanted you to taste what you deserve."

"François…" Her voice wavered as she struggled to find the right words.

"You know you can’t stay in that house any longer."

"I wish it were that simple," she murmured, shaking her head.

"There’s no other option. The situation is only getting worse. His self-destruction is the annihilation of your happiness. His rage the ruin of your self-worth. Any night in that house could be your last."

Tears welled in her eyes. "I can’t just leave. He’s a good person when he’s sober. If I abandon him, his drinking will just get worse. He’ll get more depressed. He always threatens to take his own life. If I walk away now, he’ll have no one, and he’ll drink himself further into oblivion. Maybe he really does believe he’s a great father. Maybe he thinks he’s doing his best."

François sat back, disbelief crossing his face. "He’s tried his best? Is that what you really believe?" His voice was low, tinged with anger.

She didn’t meet his gaze. "No."

"His best would have been treating you with respect, putting down the bottle, not demoralizing you every night. Not filling your life with fear and pain." He shook his head. "That’s not a father. That’s a coward."

Tears spilled down Carmela’s face. "He is my father."

François placed his hand over hers, his grip warm and steady. "I know. And that’s what makes it harder. But you know, deep down, that you have no choice left. You have to walk away."

"I don’t have anywhere to go," she whispered.

"You can live with your aunt in Iowa."

"I haven’t spoken to her in years. My father disallowed it after they had a falling out."

"Because she confronted him about his drinking problem," François countered. "You have her address and number in a notebook, deep in your closet."

"She might not even live there anymore. Her number could have changed."

"You don’t know that." He leaned forward, eyes filled with quiet intensity. "You can’t stay here, Carmela. His addiction will consume him, and it will consume you, too. You deserve to live. To be free. To put yourself first."

He stood and held out his arms. "Promise me, you’ll leave. Today. And never look back."

Looking into his earnest, noble eyes, Carmela knew the truth of his words. She had known it all along.

"I promise."

François kissed her forehead, his embrace a refuge she had never known before.

"Au revoir and best wishes, my dearest Carmela."

Her eyes fluttered open to the familiar sight of the barn’s dilapidated roof. She blinked, the dizziness fading quickly. Standing, she felt more clarity in her mind than she had in years. She surveyed the barn, the memories rushing back. When she reached the spot where she’d first found François, she smiled softly, knowing she had a choice to make. With a steady breath, she closed the barn doors behind her—this chapter of her life had come to an end.