Friday, August 29


In the beginning there were five of us, my mother and father, my two brothers and myself. I was the youngest and the only girl. It felt natural to be together, as if we’d live this way until the end.
My brothers were ten and twelve years older than me; a huge age difference which did not seem to matter much. They loved having a little sister, someone to tease and play with, someone you could impress your girlfriends with. While growing up my brothers seemed like Gods to me. They would throw me in the air and say: “Margot, you were an accident.” Even if this was true, I felt accepted, knowing that I was their favourite accident, the one they had been waiting for since they were born. My parents were distant figures, mysterious creatures, locked in a world I did not understand. Their world was seperate from ours, a place we could not enter yet.
Since I was tall for my age my mother would correct my posture by saying: “Please Margot, don’t slouch, you’ll end up looking like that guy from Notre Dame.”
The rules were simple: don’t slouch, walk straight, show your breasts. This was one of the earliest lessons I learned: to treat the world as my catwalk, pretend I was a model showing off her non existent breasts.