Silence hangs between us, heavy as lead. It presses down, squeezing the air, as if the room has half the oxygen it should. Mom lowers her gaze, exhales, and in her voice, for the first time, something human appears—fatigue. The kind that builds up over years, pulling the shoulders down, turning a person into a shadow of themselves.
"Alright. So many years have passed… It's time I tell you. But you, my son… don't be angry with me," she says quietly, almost pleadingly. For the first time, her eyes hold not righteousness, not pressure, not reproach, but… fear.
She comes over and sits on the couch. Slowly. As if her legs can no longer hold her, as if they are buckling under the weight of the guilt she has carried all this time. I sit next to her, tensed to the limit—muscles taut like strings. My heart pounds not in my chest, but somewhere in my throat, hammering against my bones, echoing in my temples.
"Do you remember when I came to visit you?..," she begins hesitantly.
"Yes. And? You liked Katrin, you wished us happiness," I remind her, holding back the tremor in my voice. Inside, fear begins to stir—a nasty, cold, sticky fear.
"I lied," Mom's voice becomes cold as ice, like a knife blade calmly cutting bread. "I didn't like her from the start. You don't need a girl like that, understand it finally!"
The world inside me seems to creak. Cracks begin to form.
"Please, Mom, get to the point," I cut in, feeling the tension in my chest grow, like a volcano about to erupt. "What about the money?"
She lowers her eyes, as if afraid of mine. Or of her own conscience.
"I didn't leave the city back then," Mom continues, barely above a whisper. "I texted her to meet… and she came to me."
Everything inside me constricts, as if someone suddenly squeezes my heart with an iron grip. My chest burns from within, a dull thrum pulses in my head. So that was it… that very call from Vi. I remembered waiting for her, standing by the window, matching every shadow outside the glass with my gaze. Hoping that any moment she would come from Vi. But in that moment… she went to my mother. And with each word, Mom turns my world upside down, breaking the foundation I have stood on all these years.
The whole picture in my head reshapes itself, and fear takes hold. A fear that makes my joints ache. Could it be that all this time I have believed a lie? Clung to an illusion not even worth the air I spent on her name?
"Why did you call her?..," the words slip from my lips like blades. Saturated with disbelief and shock. The air between us thickens, heavy, as if it could be cut with a knife.
"To offer her money," she replies calmly. Almost matter-of-factly. As if she were discussing buying a new coffee maker, not destroying my life.
"For what?..," I whisper. My lips barely move. My fingers tremble, and I feel a storm rising inside. Something ancient, wild, primal—anger, pain, despair, all at once.
"To make her leave you. And disappear from your life," her voice doesn't waver. Not a hint of doubt. Not a trace of regret. Only a dry, merciless fact. "She agreed. And I, as promised, transferred everything I had promised her."
For a moment, everything around disappears. Walls, couch, even the air—gone. Only I remain. And the pain. Dull, monstrous, tearing.
The world around me sways. The ground beneath my feet seems to crack. My heart jerks in my chest so sharply that it becomes hard to breathe. I hear her, understand every word—but I can't believe it. It sounds like betrayal from both sides.
And the most terrifying part—she agrees.
"Mom…" I jump up from the couch. My head buzzes, my ears throb with anger and despair. How can she? How can mother interfere in my life so cruelly?
Grabbing my head, I begin pacing the room like a trapped beast in a cage. The air feels too heavy—every breath cutting my chest from the inside. Thoughts race through my head with a crash, colliding, breaking, refusing to let me focus on a single one. I don't know what to do, what to believe, where to put myself. Everything is falling apart.
My heart constricts with pain—sharp, all-consuming, the kind that makes you want to howl. I can't understand—why did Katrin agree? Why did she leave? She had written that she love me, that she had to leave. That it was necessary. Then why?..
I'm not angry at her about the money. I don't care whether she took it or not. Money means nothing in this situation. But her leaving… it destroys me. Breaks me from the inside. She just left. Left me. As if everything between us means nothing. As if I am one of those people easily forgotten.
But I know Katrin. I know her too well to believe she could just erase everything like that. No. I don't believe it is that simple. I can't. I try again and again to find a justification for her actions. Maybe she truly has no choice. Maybe it is the only decision life forces her into. Maybe she suffers no less than I do.
But those "maybes" do not lessen the pain. They only eat me from the inside, turning every thought into torture.
"How could you do this to me, Mom?" I turn to her, trembling with rage and pain. My voice breaks into a scream.
"You're defending her again!" she flares. "Yes, I did it. And let half the blame be on me. But what about her? When will you finally admit that she betrayed you and left?"
"She's not here," I say steadily. "And I'll ask her everything myself when I meet her."
"When?" Mother smirks, contempt in her voice. "Don't make me laugh. Do you really think you'll find her?"
"Someone promised me…" I admit for the first time, struggling for words. "Someone promised that as soon as I finish university, they'd tell me where she is."
"Someone lied to you, like the last idiot!" she shouts angrily. "Don't you get it?! No one is going to tell you anything. She doesn't love you and never did. Took the money—and happily splurges it somewhere, if she hasn't spent it in the first months."
I have had enough. I can't take it anymore. I stand in the middle of the room, clenching my fists so tightly that my nails dig into my palms, leaving painful marks. Everything inside is trembling—not from fear, not from anger, but from complete, utter exhaustion. It feels as if there is nothing left of me.
My mother's words still ring in my ears like slaps—sharp, humiliating, destabilizing. Every word hits exactly the most vulnerable spot, as if she knows where to aim. These phrases don't just sound—they burn. And the more I try to shut them out, the louder they become.
I want to scream, to tear the walls down to drown out that voice. I want to hide, to disappear, to erase the memory. But I can't. They sit deep under my skin—not words, but poison, coursing through my veins.
"Leave," I say hoarsely but firmly.
"What? You're kicking me out?" There is genuine surprise in her voice, as if she doesn't realize she has crossed a line.
"Yes. And don't come back to this apartment," I straighten up, suppressing the trembling in my hands. "You can go to another place. But not this one."
I forbid her from coming here. This is my space, my territory of pain, anger, and silence. Yet I still allow her to come to the house my father still rents. My mother lives there—and I have no right to interfere. I can't and don't want to. That is her world. And this—this is mine.
But now she stands in the doorway as if none of it matters. As if I haven't spoken. As if my boundaries are meaningless to her. She smirks—coldly, contemptuously, as if my displeasure were a childish tantrum. A flicker of pain crosses her eyes—quick, vulnerable, almost imperceptible. But there is no remorse. Not a drop. Only detachment, carved over years. It is as if a wall has grown between us—and she no longer intends to try to tear it down.
"So why? I offended your holy goddess—and now I may not cross the threshold of her sanctuary, the one you made here, Max?"
"Mom, leave. I've said it all," I repeat wearily, as if saying these words aloud could quiet the storm inside.
"Oh, please!" she shouts, and a second later the door slams with such force that the walls shake.
The room empties, but the air remains heavy, like before a storm. It feels as if the walls press in from all sides, soaked with the echo of the recent conversation, filled with silence that screams louder than any words. The ringing in my head doesn't stop—dull, intrusive, like someone's distant heartbeat inside my skull. I stand motionless, staring into emptiness, feeling thousands of thoughts squeeze me. They whirl like a vortex, scratching me from within, peeling me down to the raw.
Enough.
Enough lies. Enough half-truths, forced smiles, and lowered eyes. Enough suffering in guesses and burning with uncertainty while the truth quietly rots in others' silence.
It is time to learn the truth. All of it. Without embellishments. Time to piece together what has been so carefully hidden from me. Time to confront her. My Rebel Girl. To look her in the eyes. To hear from her—why. Why did she left? Why did she stay silent? Why did she agree?
I know where to start. The one who knows everything. The one who is there when they are keeping me away. The one who stays silent when he could have spoken. Grandpa Vi.
With trembling fingers, as if even dialing were a feat, I enter his number. Each ring strikes my nerves. He answers almost immediately—as if he has been waiting. As if he knows this moment will come.
"Enjoyed the video?" the man asks instead of greeting me, with that usual twinkle in his voice, as if we've only been apart a couple of hours, and everything is still easy and simple.
But for me, everything has changed.
"Yes…" I exhale. A monosyllabic answer, devoid of joy or interest. Only restrained detachment, a dull fracture. "But that's not why I'm calling. Where are you?" My voice becomes firm, harsh, as if the ground beneath me has ceased to be stable. No trace of previous lightness. No jokes. No smiles. All gone.
"Something happened, Max?"
He understands immediately. Hears it. Reads between the lines. Even through the speaker, I can feel his concern—that particular alertness that appears when trouble is near. His voice grows quieter, more serious, as if he is straining alongside me.
"We'll talk in person. Where are you right now?" I ask, unable to contain the rising tension inside. My chest pounds like a frantic bird trapped in a cage.
"On the road. Heading to the workshop. Want me to stop by?"
He offers immediately, without hesitation, like someone ready to lend a shoulder. But I have already decided.
"No. I'll come myself. Wait," I say sharply, cutting off any objections.
And just like that, he hangs up. Quickly. Without goodbye. Without pause. Not giving either of us time for questions I simply can't bear.
The phone screen goes dark, and in the reflection of the black glass, I see my own face—pale, frozen, eyes squinting, jaw tense. I can no longer delay. The truth is waiting. And perhaps, along with it, the destruction of everything I believe in.
I could have let him come. It would have been easier—just stay in place, wait. But no. I need time. I need space between conversation and decision. At least a little. To collect myself. To avoid exploding. I need to walk. To breathe in the icy air to suppress the volcano raging inside. To avoid snapping, to avoid shattering into pieces the moment we meet.
I call a taxi. When the car arrives, I get in automatically, barely noticing the driver, the streets, life outside the window. The world seems blurred, unreal—as if I am looking through frosted glass. Yet I feel every heartbeat, every engine turn. The road seems endless. And all the while, as the streets rush past, I stare out the window, repeating one thought to myself, like a mantra. Like a verdict.
Soon I will learn the truth. Whatever it might be.