(Letter written on Friday, Oct. 3)
My dearest daughter,
Two days before yet another "March for All," I find myself this evening with the bitter taste of the meals that preceded this weekend, when thousands of people took to the streets against you. I see you at the table, counting the cherry tomatoes on your plate; you're counting them better and better now, and you are happy and proud. Tonight, I would like to share a bit of your innocence.
You are still too young to understand that, on Sunday, adults dressed in pink and blue will take their children and shamelessly say that they do not want to acknowledge your family or your parents. I am struggling to protect you from these cries that are wounding our family: I turned off the TV and the radio, and I will not buy tomorrow's newspaper. I'm sparing your youth by taking it easy on their beliefs, in hopes of a world of tolerance and respect. Already at your preschool, some of your friends have been shocked that you talk about your dad and two moms. You've learned to respond to them, you've told one of your moms, and you know that you can count on us and your teacher if their questions become judgments.
On Monday, maybe one of your classmates will tell you about how he walked alongside his parents in order for all kids to have one dad and one mom -- definitely not two dads, definitely not two moms, let alone one dad and two moms. I look at your chestnut-brown curls, and I wonder how you will react. You see, my darling daughter, when I chose to have a child while embracing my homosexuality, when I chose to begin a family with same-sex parents, when I chose to give you life, I questioned myself for a long time about the world that I would offer you. What kind of soon-to-be parent wouldn't wonder these things? I decided to bring you into the world because I believed in our strength as parents, in our capacity to instill within you our values. I already believed in you and in your "joie de vivre." I listen to your laugh tonight, the laugh that will never leave you. I look into your big blue eyes, and I tell myself that I have not made a mistake.
If you were born, it's also because I had faith in a society that was open, generous and respectful of differences and diversities -- one of the results of a Catholic education, which had me confirmed at 15. I have to tell you, my darling daughter, that these past two years have greatly tested my philanthropy. If I am quiet while watching you eat this evening, it's because I'm trying not to scream out in anger and disappointment about the shameful display this week, which displayed political figures treating you as subhuman, and which will display all these people parading against you and against your parents on Sunday. I'm trying hard to not show you these jagged wounds. It is really hurting me, and I will surely end the weekend, as always, with a tightened jaw for not having been able to express my disgust. It's for you that I keep my mouth shut at home, and it's for you that I beat myself up outside the foyer, because you -- you and your classmates born via medically assisted procreation or surrogate mothers, or those who were adopted or are the sons and daughters of homosexuals -- are the main reason for my fight.
Let me tell you a story, my sweet daughter. I was coming home from the nursery with you on Nov. 21, 2012, when I got a phone call asking me to show up to the Élysée Palace to be received by President François Hollande after he had, the day before, humiliated gays and lesbians by deciding that their marriages would be determined by the conscience of the officers of the civil state. When the phone rang, you were by my side. I was alone with you. I said, "Yes, I'll be there." I had an hour and a half to get ready. I thought for a moment about bringing you with me. I thought that they had to see that you exist, that this debate was about you and your parents, that the words of those expressing themselves were not disembodied. I thought that your presence in front of the cameras and microphones would force them to realize that you are listening, that you hear what they are saying about you, your parents and your family. After thinking about it, I decided against it. I called up a close friend, who kindly agreed to watch you while I met with the president of the republic.
Today, I'm thinking about it again while I watch you viciously devour your vanilla yogurt, and I tell myself that I did the right thing. I would like you, my sweet daughter, to keep your trust in humanity. I would like you to never question this trust the way I have been myself for the past two years. Tomorrow, I would like my battle for you to seem totally crazy.
This blog post originally appeared on The Huffington Post France and was translated from French.