Katrin runs into the entrance, and my heart, at that very second, starts racing wildly—like a frightened bird trapped in a cage. It pounds so hard that it feels as if it will burst out of my chest and fall into my hands, exhausted from anxiety and excitement. My ribcage feels squeezed by an invisible hoop—with every passing second, it becomes harder to breathe, as if the air thickens, turning into a viscous, dense anticipation.
Any moment now, I am going to see my daughter for the first time. Not in a photograph, not in someone's stories, but in real life. Truly. Tangibly. With a pulse, a breath, a gaze. The one I learned about only this morning, and by evening, I will look into her eyes and perhaps find a piece of myself there.
I can't believe it. Everything happening feels like a dream, in which reality flares up in sudden bursts of awareness. The world seems to have turned inside out: yesterday, I lived in ignorance, mired in loneliness, in routine pain, where the only light was memories of Katrin. And today—I stand by an old, peeling entrance, waiting… for my family. That word sounds unfamiliar in my mind, burningly sweet, like something long lost that suddenly returns and demands to be understood anew.
Overwhelmed, I begin pacing unconsciously around the car, not feeling the asphalt under my feet. My mind is a complete mess; thoughts collide, replace one another, refusing to let me focus. How will she react? Will she see someone familiar in me? What should I say so as not to scare her? Am I expecting too much from our first meeting? I feel like a schoolboy before an exam, except the stakes are not grades but her trust. Her acceptance. I want to be someone she can love, even if not immediately—at least eventually. I want to be worthy of her.
And then… the entrance door swings open. Time freezes. All sounds retreat, as if the world holds its breath with me.
They come out—and I freeze.
A small figure in a pink jacket with tousled curls immediately pierces my heart—a familiar, frighteningly recognizable silhouette. She walks beside Katrin, holding her hand tightly, slightly hiding behind her hip, as if seeking support. And it strikes me like a blow to the heart—soft, warm, and at the same time deafening. My heart skips a beat, as if it cannot handle the overflow of emotions. Before me stands a little copy of my Rebel Girl. The same piercing eyes, like mirrors reflecting part of my soul. The same brows, furrowed in expectation or caution. The same stubborn crease of the lips, just like Katrin's.
I slowly crouch down to be at her level, not to frighten, not to loom over her—just to be nearby, to show that I am here. For her. For them.
They approach. My heart freezes, and my mind finally steps back. Only this moment remains. I look at her, unable to believe it is real. Could this really be my daughter? Mine. Blood of my blood. A piece of me, whose existence I hadn't known, but can no longer let go. My chest tears with a mix of tenderness, fear, and love that surges so powerfully it almost knocks me off my feet.
I meet her gaze—and I am lost.
"Will you introduce us?" I ask Katrin, struggling with the trembling in my voice.
"Yes, of course," she says, also crouching next to her daughter and looking at her gently. "Mary, do you remember I told you about your dad?"
"Yes," the girl answers cheerfully, her eyes shining with curiosity and joy.
"Here he is, in front of you," Katrin says, slightly nodding in my direction.
Mary approaches me, hesitant but without fear. In her eyes, there is caution mixed with curiosity, as if she is trying to understand—Is this really the person her mother told her about? The girl stops just a step away from me and, reaching out slightly, carefully places her hand on my cheek.
Small, warm, soft. That hand seems to contain all the childlike trust that could exist. Something inside me trembles. A lump rises in my throat, my breathing becomes uneven. I raise my hand too—slowly, with hidden tenderness, as if afraid to disturb the fragile magic of the moment, and barely touch her fingers.
Time stops. We just look at each other—she, with childish seriousness and slightly pursed lips, and I—with a shattered heart trying to piece itself together from just one glance of hers. Silence hangs between us, but it carries more than any words could say.
I see myself in her. And Katrin. I see her past, her present, and all the future that is just beginning to unfold. And I know—I now have not just a purpose, but a whole universe in those bright eyes.
"You're beautiful… just like mom said," she says, slightly lisping, and it is unbearably sweet. Her voice—clear, childlike—but so full of sincerity that it catches in my throat.
"And you are just as wonderful as your mom, my little star," I breathe out with a smile, feeling something inside break and reform at the same time.
"Mary, let's talk with your dad at home. It's March outside, and it's still cold in the evening," Katrin intervenes softly but firmly, as always. She interrupts our conversation but doesn't dismiss it—just reminds us of reality.
I am not offended. Not at all. I am grateful to her for these minutes, for allowing me to see my little girl. I know there will be more. Much more.
Katrin carefully helps Mary into the car, adjusting her seatbelt with care. I stand nearby, ready to open the door for her, as I would always do, every day if I could. But she stands beside her and closes the door.
"I wanted to talk while Mary can't hear, sitting in the car," Rebel Girl says, looking me in the eyes.
"Yes, of course," I reply seriously. I am ready to hear everything my girl wants to say. Everything she has kept inside.
The girl… No. She is no longer a girl. She has become a woman—strong, determined, someone who fights not only for herself but also for her child. And for us. Perhaps—for all of us.
"First, I wanted to clarify about Mary. I didn't mean to interrupt your introduction, it's just that she recently recovered, and I'm afraid she could catch a cold again," her voice is warm, yet tinged with worry. "Usually, I ride with her by bike. So fast and convenient…"
I listen to her carefully, without interrupting, feeling the anxiety slipping through every sentence—not for herself, but for her daughter. Her concern touches me more deeply than I expect.
"I'm not upset; if anything, I'm happy for the moments we had today," I answer honestly, looking her straight in the eyes. I want her to know—I hold no grudge. I am only grateful.
She nods slightly and takes a breath, as if gathering her strength before continuing.
"I don't know what Vi told you…" she hesitates. "I'm sure it was him who told you where I am. No one else knew…"
I nod silently, confirming her suspicion. Yes, it's him. The only one who knows. And apparently, the only one who truly believes that Katrin and I will meet again.
"Our girl… she is wanted. I mean…" she falters, her voice trembling. "I would never have had an abortion. I just… I want you to know that I could never do that. I would never do it. Especially knowing that she… is a part of you."
I can see how hard it is for her to say this. How each word comes with effort, as if she carries it through an internal storm. How afraid she is of being misunderstood, judged, or rejected. And how desperately she wants me to believe her. Not just hear her—but truly believe. In every intonation, every pause, every emotion she hasn't managed to hide.
"May I say something?" I ask quietly, unsure if she has finished. My voice sounds cautious, almost timid, as if I fear breaking the fragile balance between us.
"Yes," she whispers, looking at me with slight anxiety. In her eyes reflect hope, tension, and an almost childlike expectation of relief.
"I never thought that. And anyway… when have I ever thought badly of you?" I want to break the tension, to bring warmth back between us. To feel that lightness again—the one that exists before everything becomes complicated, before we lose each other.
"After I left, you had every right to blame me for anything…" her voice grows quieter, almost swallowed by the wind. Pain. Guilt. And maybe regret. It trembles in her words, like an invisible note sounding after every confession.
I step closer, almost pressing her against the car. Not as a threat, not as a capture—but as a quiet protection. The space between us disappears. She doesn't pull away. She just looks at me—without fear, without defense. Naked truth between us. So rare, so frighteningly real.
"Thank you for keeping her for me, Rebel Girl," I whisper slowly, with feeling. Every word carries weight. Reality. "Now let's take care of her together?"
I touch her cheek, softly, almost tenderly, tracing her skin with my fingers. She closes her eyes, allowing herself to relax in my hands. I feel her still under that touch—as if only now she allows herself to exhale. As if, for the first time in a long while, she feels safe.
"I don't mind," Katrin answers barely audibly. The words are quiet, but they contain everything. Acceptance. Openness. Trust.
"It's really cold today. Let's go back already," I step back a little, keeping my eyes on her. My heart is beating fast, but steady—for the first time in a long time, I don't feel fear of what will come next.
Rebel Girl lingers for a second, as if she doesn't want this moment to end. As if she wants to keep it inside, hidden somewhere deep, where the warmest memories are kept.
"Don't you want to say anything else? Or ask?" she asks, lifting her chin slightly. There is no insistence in her voice—just a gentle invitation to openness.
"I do…" I admit honestly. "But not today. This has been an emotionally intense day. Let's leave everything for another time."
"Okay," she nods and gets into the car, carefully closing the door behind her. Her movements are calm, but there is a subtle fragility in them. Like someone who has held on for so long—finally allowing herself to loosen her grip.
And I stand nearby, looking at them—my daughter and the one I once lost but now regain. At the two people closest to me. My meaning.
Today is the happiest day of my life. Not an exaggeration, but pure truth. For the first time in these damn three and a half years, I feel alive again. Not merely existing, not a shadow of myself—but truly alive. Fully. Genuinely. As if someone has rekindled the fire in my chest that I long thought extinguished.
The sun shines brighter. The air feels warmer. Even my heart beats differently—fuller, louder. As if, after a long silence, it remembers what it means to be needed. To be loved.
I stand there, unable to look away, absorbing every moment like someone returning from the edge of an abyss. Or from hell, where I have spent too long alone. And now… now I am here again. With them. And I want nothing else.