"I grew up like many children of divorced parents of my generation: My younger brother and I lived with our mother and saw our father every other weekend and for half the school vacations. He lived in Paris, and we used to take the train to travel the 300 kilometers that separated us from him.

My father had many love affairs with women, and he didn't hide anything from us; in fact, I would even say he spared us nothing. I remember a week over the All Saints' Day holiday, when my brother and I went to stay with him. He lived in a 25-square-meter studio apartment that barely had space for us. That week, we slept in a different place every night. We were like little packages he carted around.

When I was a young teenager, he'd been seeing a woman for some time who had a daughter my age. He took it for granted that we'd be friends. But this girl made me very anxious. She was terribly hostile and aggressive toward me. I think she was jealous because her family situation was complicated; she seemed to be suffering from major psychological problems. But that was the least of my father's worries; he thought it was a good idea to sign us up for a summer camp together. It was so difficult and painful for me that I left before it was over.

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