My heart tears with pain as I see Mary place her tiny hand on her father's cheek. The gesture is so natural, so touching, that it makes my chest ache. Time seems to stop. Three years. I have separated them for three endlessly long years, filled with emptiness, regrets, and silent nights. And if he hadn't shown up today, who knows how much longer this agonizing waiting, this forced estrangement that I myself chose, would have lasted.
Today, for the first time, I truly realize the enormity of my mistake. The realization strikes my heart like waves against jagged rocks—relentless and insistent. Everything inside me protests against continuing to live as before. I can no longer convince myself that everything is right. I have no right to take this from them. Maxim has to be by his daughter's side. Mary needs him like air, like warmth, like hands that lull her to sleep at night. And he needs her too—it is visible in the way he looks at her, as if trying to absorb every second, every gesture, every smile. I have to let go of the past, stop hiding behind fears, complexes, and doubts.
But as for us… everything is much more complicated, delicate, vulnerable. I don't know where to start, with which phrase, with which look. We have changed. Life has changed us, placing us on opposite sides of silence. Can we be together again, like before, or have those feelings sunk into the past along with carefree youth? Do I want him back? Yes. With all my heart, all my soul, every cell. I miss him like one misses home during a war. But does he want me? I don't know. There is tenderness in his gaze—warm, soft, almost burning. But there is also a shadow. Something unspoken, something I can't read, as if Max has hidden his thoughts behind a strong, weary silence.
I have a lot to explain. First of all—why I left. I have told myself countless times that it was for him, so he could find his path, be free from anchors and obligations. But now… now, watching how his fingers gently touch Mary's hair, how he smiles at her with a slight, almost imperceptible tremor in his lips—I'm not sure. Have I done everything right? Or is my "nobility" just an escape, a weakness disguised with beautiful words? Grandma has always been right. Before taking the next step, you need to be completely honest—at least with yourself.
Mary and I get out of the car. The wind gently touches my hair, as if an invisible hand reminds me: everything has changed. There is no road back, but we can't move forward blindly either. Maxim stays to park the car. We go inside—the silence envelops us like a warm blanket. I take my daughter's jacket off and carefully place her pink boots in the corner. She runs off to watch cartoons—I usually don't allow her to turn on the TV during the day, only in the evening after dinner. But now… now I need this tiny space of silence. A little peace. Even one breath to hear not the noise of thoughts, but reality—the heart, feelings, memory. To understand how to live further. And what I truly want.
"Yeah, you picked yourself a man," my grandmother complains about me, groaning as if her heart relives my youth.
I stand by the window, leaning against the cool glass, silently watching Maxim carefully park his car. He looks so calm, as if nothing has happened. And inside me, a hurricane rages.
"A good guy, just like you wanted," I continue, without looking at Grandma.
I give a bitter smile.
"But you're the bad one. You said he left you," she reminds me, peering over her glasses.
I look away. The lump in my throat makes it hard to breathe. I have to almost force the words out.
"And what was I supposed to tell you? That I left him myself? That, finding out I was pregnant, I didn't say a word, I just disappeared?" The confession comes out in a whisper. Suddenly, I feel cold, as if someone opened a door to winter. Grandma only shakes her head. Slowly, heavily. Without words. The judgment in her silence is louder than any scream.
"What are we going to do about him?" she finally asks, and her voice is softer.
I involuntarily smile, remembering him. The memory flares in my mind with a warm light, like cozy sunlight through curtains on a lazy morning. I can't help laughing—a bright, short laugh. I remember how, once, while he slept, arms spread across the bed and breathing so calmly as if the whole world had finally left him in peace, I quietly crept up with a marker and, laughing, drew black mustaches and a nose on him while he slept. He woke up, saw himself in the mirror, and didn't get angry—he only reached for me with that very smile that always made my heart tighten. Max never got angry. Never.
The next memory flashed like headlights on a night highway. We were standing in the university parking lot after races. Maxim was standing in front of me—full of adrenaline, the smell of gasoline, a spark in his eyes. I asked then, laughing:
"Well, what am I supposed to do with you now?"
He didn't answer immediately. He just stepped closer, cupped my face in his hands, and only then, without looking away, said:
"Kiss, love, and don't forget to feed."
And now, repeating these words aloud, I felt them come alive again, as if he were here—bold, warm, real.
Then I laughed, pressing against his chest. It sounded like a joke, silly and sweet, like him in those moments. I hadn't thought much of it back then. But now… now these words cut through my heart, gently but painfully—as if a request, as if a reminder left for later. And suddenly I realized: in that phrase, there was much more than humor. It was the essence of all his love. Simple, without pretension. Real.
"Kiss, love, and don't forget to feed," I repeat quietly, almost whispering, as if afraid that if I speak louder, he will vanish from memory.
Grandma, sitting nearby, snorts and gives me a sharp look:
"Is he a cat or something?"
Her voice sounds harsh, but there is worry in it. I smile through the lump in my throat, shaking my head, not daring to answer. If only she knew how much I miss this "cat" right now.
"Yes, a cat," I nod, feeling the warmth of the memories spread across my chest.
"We joke, but here, by the way, is an important question. And it doesn't concern only you," Grandma grumbles, becoming serious again. "You're not alone anymore. And your choice—it's not just about love. It's about family. About the future."
I nod. I understand. I feel.
"I understand. What do you suggest?"
"Go. You have nothing to lose anyway. If you don't like it—you'll come back. But don't be afraid to give yourself a chance, girl."
I lower my eyes, fiddling with the edge of my sleeve.
"I'll think about it," I say honestly. "I haven't decided anything yet."
But inside, a thought is already forming. Warm, frightening, yet real.
All this time, I haven't taken my eyes off Maxim, watching him through the glass, as if observing someone else suddenly appearing in a familiar frame. He has just parked—confidently, calmly, with careless precision.
The car door slams with a dull sound, and he, as if in slow motion, walks around the hood. Every movement of his seems carved from a scene I had only imagined before: strong, slightly daring, incredibly real. Maxim stops and lazily leans on the hood, dropping his shoulders—so effortlessly, as if he is at home. He pulls something from his jacket pocket… I squint, trying to see, and my heart sinks. A pack of cigarettes. He takes one out, holds it between his fingers, and lights it.
My good boy… smokes?
It feels as if someone strikes me from the inside. My throat tightens, my chest constricts, as if there isn't enough air. In my head, incoherent thoughts ring out: no, this is a mistake, it's just not him, it can't be… Everything inside turns upside down, as if the world I know cracks along a seam. He looks unfamiliar. Cold. Distant. And so grown-up, an unfamiliar kind of grown-up. Not the one I remember. Not the one I… love?
Resentment rises in my chest, but not immediately—at first, it is surprise. It flares up brightly, burningly, stronger than everything else. I jump to my feet—as if something inside snaps—and without a word, I walk toward him.
Maxim sees me. Of course, he does. But… he doesn't react. No smile, no hint of warmth. Just a slight squint at the smoke, not looking me directly in the eyes, as if I am just part of the scenery. He continues smoking, as if everything is fine. As if nothing has changed.
And I stand there, as if in a vacuum, in this strange, silent moment, where the smoke from his cigarette feels more tangible than the feelings between us.
"Since when do you smoke?" I ask, showing neither judgment nor pain in my voice.
He smirks. Quickly, bitterly, as if he expects the question.
"Since you quit," his voice is sharp, with a barely perceptible mockery. He doesn't even look at me.
I fall silent. Not because I don't know what to say—words are lodged in my throat, lined up, ready to spill from my lips. But because I know: he has every right to be angry. At me. At all this. At the pain I caused by disappearing. This is never just about cigarettes. It is about us. About the feelings that once warmed us, now leaving only silence. About the fact that I left. That I haven't been there for so many years.
We stand in silence. I—next to him, as if trying to become part of his world again. He—in his silent protest, smoking, as if drawing out anger, bitterness, what he cannot say aloud. And maybe doesn't want to.
The cold pinches the skin, as if nature itself wants to say something. The wind tangles my hair, brushing strands from my face, as if erasing the mask I have hidden behind. But I don't move. Because I can't. Because, despite the piercing cold, it is hot inside. It hurts.
Maxim is near, just a step away, but seems infinitely far. I feel time between us tighten into a dense knot. One of us has to cut it—by word, gaze, a step forward. But no one moves. We stand in this fragile moment, between past and present, where every breath feels like a choice.
And I am afraid to take the first step.
"Go inside, don't wait for me. I'll finish and come in," he says without even looking, almost calmly.
Even that suits him. Standing there like a hero from an old black-and-white film: tired, grown-up, with a cigarette in hand, radiating that incredible confidence—new from him, yet attractive. And I watch him, unable to look away. The world around disappears—it doesn't matter what is happening in this moment, only he does. His figure in the evening light, his gestures, him—with the cigarette slowly burning between his fingers.
Suddenly, he takes it by the filter, and with such care, as if this were the last moment, leans and carefully extinguishes it on the ground. He doesn't throw the butt away, like many would have. No, he puts it in his pocket, as if he doesn't want to leave even a tiny trace behind, doesn't want anything extra to remind of his presence, except his very essence. I cling to that gesture with my eyes, and it feels familiar… a reminder that he remembers how important it is for both of us not to scatter.
And then… Maxim takes off his jacket and, without a word, drapes it over me. And with that movement, the whole world shrinks back to just the two of us. The smell of smoke, warmth, something sharp, something foreign, yet at the same time familiar—tethering me firmly to him. And something else, elusive, that I cannot name, but feel down to my bones. It is a feeling of home. A feeling that he is still here. That not everything between us is lost.
I freeze, unable to move. His embrace is a quiet confession—not in words, but in gestures. It says: "I'm still here," "I still remember you," "I haven't forgotten, no matter what." I feel this moment crash into me, and everything before it blurs, losing significance.
"Don't freeze, my Rebel Girl," he whispers in my ear. So gently that it feels as if everything inside me has stopped, leaving only that sound. It is more than words. It is his way of saying that everything will be different. Somehow better.
And then he takes my hand and leads me into the house, as if inviting me to be near again, to be part of this space again. I follow him, not taking off his jacket. Not because I am cold—it warms me, but that isn't the main thing. The main thing is that I don't want to lose this feeling. This sense of belonging, closeness, that he is still with me.
"I need to check my mail and do some work. And you, what will you do?" he asks in the hallway, his voice so familiar, so calm, as if everything has returned to normal. As if we are together again, at home again, like before.
I blink, as if returning to reality, and feel the space around me filling with the familiar rhythm of life.
"I need to make dinner," I answer quietly.
"Good. Then let's do our things," he nods, already sorting his bag.
But as soon as he leaves, I remain standing, unable to believe what has just happened. His jacket smells like him. Smells like home. Smells like the things we both try to hide but cannot. The things that are always between us, but cannot be spoken aloud. Smells like the love we never manage to forget, even if we try.