It’s your birthday. There are balloons everywhere, candles on a cake, a small tiara in your long blond hair and smiles on your family’s faces.
It’s your birthday. You are turning thirteen and you should feel happy, but you can’t. Because the colours are faded and the smiles don’t quite reach people’s ears. And you’re used to it - it’s always been like this, ever since your first birthday on May 1999th.
Two years ago, you asked, “Why? Why are you all so sad? Don’t you love me?”, and your parents said, “Listen, Victoire…”
And now you know. You know and it’s even worse because you cannot complain. Not when so many died.
So you just suffer in silence.
Your name means “victory”, and your birthday belongs to History.