That afternoon, he saw a child drop an ice cream cone. The child wailed. The mother scrambled. Jean watched, and for a split second, he felt the old tug— Oh no, poor thing, what if that were me? —then he let it go. He kept walking.
At the park bench, an old man sat down beside him. “Beautiful day,” the man said. je m en fous
Jean had spent forty-seven years trying to care. He cared about deadlines, about his mother’s opinion, about the chipped paint on his front door. He cared so much that his shoulders were permanently curved inward, as if bracing for a falling sky. That afternoon, he saw a child drop an ice cream cone