She likes his feet and his unintentional sense of humour. He likes her eccentric breakfasts and above all, the fact that she’s really funny. Hicham and Lilia are thirty something and have been living together in the suburb of Toulouse for 4 years. For a while now, Hicham has a growing desire to have a baby. He mostly wants his dad, a widower and imam of the neighbourhood, to become a grandpa before returning to Morocco. Lilia is more focused on a project she dropped years ago: her thesis about love and desire among factory workers. She just received some recordings of moving interviews with a group of workers: “Listen doc… At the factory, we had to forget that we had sex or an even a heart. So, it just seems like your sex doesn’t forgive you forgetting it. It doesn’t get hard anymore. But if I don’t have the strength to have a kid, what am I left with?... What are we left with impotent?!”
Eventually they learn that Hicham suffers from asthenospermia. Their only chance to become parents: ART. A process begins that will become the most profound and intimate ordeal of their life. At the end, they won’t have a baby and they will have to take distance from each other. However, separated they come to realise that sharing their deepest fragilities has inexorably bound them even closer together.

How can we live and create together if we can’t create life? I would like to immerse the viewer in an intimate story of infertility. To explore what it is like when love is there, but in order to survive, each one has to surrender, to give up on some certainties and dreams, to go astray aware of that we may not end up unharmed but ultimately changed by sharing our fragility.
Tone is a central aspect as I don’t want a sad, creepy atmosphere. As in my previous films, I aim for a full range of emotions. And humor will be an important part of it. To achieve this much time will be spent working with my two actors to create a truthful relationship and honest intimacy between their fictional characters.
I have always dreamed of being a father but have never been pressured by my parents, Muslim Moroccan migrants. Now, that they are almost 80, they have more trouble hiding their emotions about my childlessness. I am 46 and I am barely starting to understand what this unborn child of mine was trying to teach me. What Brings Me to You is that part of me.