Just before my son proposed, my little niece knocked the ring away and shouted: “Stop! This isn’t real!”

He sighed. “Dad, you’re living in another century. Things have changed. Your era is over.”

“Motivated people always find opportunities,” I replied calmly. “Your cousin Étienne started his cleaning business two years ago. He’s already hiring.”

“Good for Étienne,” Louis muttered. “But that kind of life isn’t for me. I’m an artist.”

“Even artists have to pay rent, Louis. And eat.”

He grabbed a croissant and headed for the door. “I’ve got some promising leads. You’ll see.”

“Like your podcast? Or your film? Or your food truck?”

He gave me a bored look. “You don’t understand life today. Your model’s dead.”

And he left, leaving me alone in the kitchen with my regrets.

I knew exactly where I’d failed. I had been too soft. After his mother died—he was only 12—I tried to fill the void with gifts, not guidance.

The years passed, and he never really grew up.

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