"Hello," I greet, sitting down unceremoniously at the table across from her.
I don't need to wait for any special reaction; I know she won't appreciate my behavior, but it doesn't matter. I have a feeling the conversation will be difficult, but I'm ready for it.
"Who are you?" Her voice sounds cautious, with a barely noticeable hint of anxiety. Her gaze is sharp, like the blade of a knife trying to cut through the moment. Grandma studies me, trying to understand what I'm doing here and why. I know that every word carries weight and that I have to be extremely precise.
"My name is Maxim. I'm Mary's dad," I decide to state my role immediately, to avoid unnecessary misunderstandings. I know she won't like this admission, but there is no time for preludes. This conversation requires directness.
"You're a bad father, you know. To leave your own daughter and her mother."
Her words, sharp as stone, pierce straight into my heart, but I smile — it's a typical reaction. I know I will have to break through her wall of distrust. But I'm ready. No matter what she says, I have to go through this.
"Katrin, she's like that, often doesn't tell the truth to those she loves," I don't try to hide the ironic tone in my voice. Perhaps it isn't the best time for jokes, but there is truth in her words, bitter though it is.
"What are you implying?"
I see her face tense and realize I have to be careful with every word; any slip could be one too many.
At that moment, the girl in question returns to the room. She stands in the doorway, hesitantly looking at us, and her presence immediately fills the space with new tension. We all know her silence is key to this conversation.
"I didn't abandon anyone; rather, I was abandoned. Yes, my dear?" I address Katrin, allowing myself a challenging look. My words are exposed; they conceal nothing — neither resentment, nor pain, nor hope.
Rebel Girl stands, pale as a wall, her face frozen, her eyes darting in search of an answer. I see her gaze falter, words seemingly stuck in her throat, and I know — it's hard for her. But it's necessary to see her true reaction.
"Katrin?" Grandma's shout cuts through the silence like a lightning strike.
There is something merciless in its sound, as if she is giving a final warning. White as a sheet, eyes wide with fear, my girl struggles to stay on her feet. It seems that one more word, and she will simply collapse. Her breathing becomes uneven, fingers clenching the edge of her shirt as if it were the only thing keeping her grounded. My chest tightens. I can't allow myself to watch her burn under this tension. I have to take control immediately. One more moment and she will faint; I won't forgive myself. All eyes have to refocus on me. Let them hate, accuse, vent anger — just not her. Not now. Not like this.
"I didn't know I was a dad, but now that I do, I want to take them," I say, standing and moving closer. My words sound firm; I am resolute. I am going to reclaim everything that rightfully belongs to me.
Grandma presses her lips together, her gaze turning into a weapon. Her entire figure radiates a sharp, furious light.
"What do you mean, take them?" Her voice is full of malice. I feel the tension in the room rise, as if the air has been compressed to the limit.
"I will provide them with everything they need, and you won't have to worry about taking care of them anymore," I reply, not yielding. My words are firm as stone, cutting through her resistance, and I can't stop. I need to explain everything once and for all.
"Are you implying that I've taken poor care of them?"
"We're not going anywhere," Katrin says, but now her voice is firm, like steel. She has regained herself, and her gaze is full of determination. I see Rebel Girl finally find her inner strength, ready to fight for her family. But somehow, I'm not a part of it.
At that moment, I realize her character isn't just her own; it is traits from her grandmother, passed down in her blood. In this defiance, in this steadfastness, in this unwavering desire to protect her family, there is something that genuinely surprises me and makes me respect her.
"And? What will you do next? Live here, work, and raise our daughter alone?" Grandma, silently watching us until now, no longer hides her disdain.
"Yes," Katrin replies, and in her words I hear not only pride but calm determination. With that, she seems to have made her final decision. I know she won't give up. But I can't agree with it.
"You know I'll provide you with everything you need," I try to sound calm, though inside everything tightens with tension. "I have no financial problems, so you don't need to worry about that anymore."
I rise from the chair and step closer, but, respecting Grandma's presence, stop a step away from her. I want to hug her, erase the resentment, but something fragile and elusive has broken between us.
"You can just send the money, like alimony," she says, not even bothering to look me in the eyes. The words sound cold, like a slap.
I slowly reach out, take her by the chin, and gently but insistently turn her face toward me, forcing her to meet my gaze.
"Do you want to take everything from me again?" My voice betrays a tremor, but I hold back. Katrin lowers her eyes, not uttering a word, and in that silence there is far more pain than in any scream.
I return to the table, trying to maintain composure.
"Today, with your permission, I'll stay here for the night. And tomorrow… tomorrow we'll talk, once the emotions settle a bit, and each of us has thought things through. How does that sound?" I address my grandmother, restrained but with hope.
"Fine. I'll talk to Katrin, and after discussing everything, we'll let you know our decision tomorrow," she says, with the kind of wisdom that only comes with age.
I nod. Here, my opinion seems to mean nothing, but I accept it—for her. For Katrin.
At that moment, her phone rings. She glances at the screen and answers immediately.
"Grandma, I'm going to pick up Mary," says Rebel Girl, as if I'm not even there.
I jump up instantly.
"Wait, I'll go with you," I quickly say, appearing by her side.
"What? No. Stay here," she reacts sharply, surprised and slightly frightened by my impulse.
"I want to meet my daughter," I say firmly, but not harshly. Simply, sincerely.
"Katrin, my dear, let him come with you," unexpectedly intervenes my grandmother. For the first time, I feel real respect for her. Maybe… maybe we can become friends.
"Alright, Grandma," Katrin reluctantly agrees.
We step out of the house. She walks ahead with some inner determination, but I stop her, almost instinctively—my heart pounding louder than our steps.
"Wait," I say gently, taking her hand to stop her halfway. Her skin is cool, and the touch feels almost fragile, as if she could disappear at any moment.
"If it's far, we can go in my car," I suggest, trying to speak calmly so as not to scare her.
Rebel Girl stands silently, her gaze lowered somewhere to the side. Inside her, it seems, a conflict is raging. Then she slightly nods, as if finally allowing herself to trust—even if just a little.
We approach the car, and I disarm the alarm and open the passenger door for her. She looks slightly embarrassed, as if unused to such attention, and hesitantly gets inside, careful not to touch anything. I walk around the car and settle into the driver's seat.
"Tell me where to go."
"For now, straight ahead," she replies, looking out the window, then shifts her gaze to the interior. Her eyes scan every detail, as if trying to figure out who I really am. "Is this yours or rented?" she asks with mild curiosity, as if wanting to confirm I'm not lying.
"Mine. I bought it almost two years ago with earned money. But as it turns out—it's not really needed in our city."
I speak honestly, trying to be as open as possible. I don't want to play a role. I just want to be near her.
"Haven't you solved the parking problem yet?" Katrin smiles, and in that smile, there is something warm, almost nostalgic.
"There are more spaces now, but the problem hasn't disappeared. The number of people and cars has doubled. So we have to survive—subway or taxi if you want to be on time."
"I see. Here, right to the end, then left—and we'll be there," she calmly directs, still looking out the window, as if her thoughts are far away.
"Why is Mary so far from home?"
"Her mother's friend drives her by car. But she doesn't bring her back. So I have to go myself to pick her up," there is weariness in her voice, but not irritation. More like habit.
"That's called selfishness," I mutter, holding back my displeasure.
"I completely agree with you," she replies with a sad smile.
"Then why do you agree to it?" I look at her. This question lingers in the air for a long moment.
"Because of Mary. She really enjoys her daughter and playing with her," the answer is quiet, almost inaudible. It carries love and the daily sacrifice she lives with.
Finally, we arrive at an old apartment building. The building looks tired of life, like the people living inside. Worn walls, peeling paint, weary windows behind which, it seems, long-unspoken stories hide. Everything here feels frozen in time—as if life, pain, and joy are all left somewhere in the past.
We get out of the car. She stands silently, staring at the building. Fatigue is visible in her eyes. I want to say something, to comfort her—through a word or gesture—but I don't.
"Stay here," she finally speaks, quietly, almost in a whisper. "I'll go get Mary, and then we'll go back."
I nod, simply and wordlessly. I watch Katrin climb the steps, slightly hunched, as if carrying on her shoulders not only the evening chill but the weight of something more. Whatever it is—I feel I want to be near her. Not to save, not to intrude—just to be. In my chest is a strange feeling—a mixture of the desire to protect and sorrow that she has to be so strong.