I wake up completely happy — it's one of those rare, precious mornings when the heart doesn't just feel joy, it seems to sing. When my breath is even and light, and every cell in my body is filled with light. Around me — peace, like after a long-awaited rain on a hot day. I slept with my girls — the two dearest beings on earth. Their warmth still lingers nearby: soft, alive, protective.
In my dream, I see us already living in our new cozy apartment. Everything is familiar down to the smallest detail — warm walls, a sunlit kitchen, the smell of fresh bread and coffee. We laugh, hug, cook breakfast together. Katrin's laughter sounds especially clear — like music, like a promise of happiness. Upon waking, I feel an unbearable longing to bring that moment closer. I desperately want it to become reality — for us to already be there, in our future home, where love reigns, where the walls absorb not pain, but joy.
I lie there, eyes closed, as if trying to preserve that fragile feeling. I absorb the morning with my skin, my breath, my heart. Tiny fingers slide softly and hesitantly across my face — curious, cautious, as if someone studies a treasure map. It's Mary. Her touches are warm, like sunbeams filtering through the morning curtains. She gently touches me, as if wanting to memorize every curve, every wrinkle, every breath.
I savor every moment — it holds a special, almost sacred peace. There are no worries, no troubles, only endless tenderness and the feeling that everything is right. Mary giggles softly — her laughter is like a drop of honey, warm and sticky, clinging to the heart. Unafraid, she touches my nose and laughs a little louder. I open my eyes and see her — tousled, radiant, real. My girl. My life.
"Hi," I whisper, my voice trembling with tenderness.
The girl kisses me on the cheek cheerfully, as if sealing the morning with a kiss, and, laughing, runs out of the room. There's so much light in her movement that it seems the room itself brightens for a moment. She leaves behind a trail of laughter, the scent of childhood, and quiet happiness.
I smile — slowly, deeply, as one does only in such morning moments. I let my gaze wander around the room. Apparently, I am alone. Probably Katrin has already woken up… maybe she went to the kitchen, as she sometimes does in our apartment, wrapped in a cozy cardigan, humming to herself. And at that moment, I want only one thing — for mornings like this to last forever.
I get dressed and go to the kitchen in search of my beloved, still feeling the warm trace of Mary's kiss on my cheek and the quiet joy of waking in my heart. It feels like the day is just beginning, that I will now see Katrin — tousled, in her cozy pajamas, holding a cup of tea, with a slightly sleepy smile. But she isn't in the kitchen.
Only Grandma is there — patiently feeding Mary porridge, carefully wiping her cheeks with a napkin. The girl fidgets in her chair, always restless, sometimes frowning, sometimes giggling, pulling away from the spoon.
"Good morning," I greet politely, trying to hide my slight disappointment, as if someone brushes a veil of hope from my soul.
"Good morning, son," Grandma replies with a soft, almost homely smile.
Today, she looks calmer than usual. There's no trace of yesterday's fatigue or irritation in her voice. Only a settled warmth, like in an old village house, smelling of pies and incense.
"And where's Katrin?" I ask, unable to hide the slight anxiety rising inside me, like water slowly filling a cup. It comes with such gentleness at first that it seems almost imperceptible — like a breeze before a storm, like the shadow of a cloud sliding across the wall. But with each passing second, it becomes more tangible, filling my chest with a sticky unease.
"She went to work," Grandma says, as if it's something ordinary that requires no explanation. The calm, almost distracted tone of her voice strikes my ear but gives no relief — on the contrary, it only amplifies the vague inner tension.
Of course… yesterday, Rebel Girl mentioned it — in passing, in a hurry, casually. I didn't even ask where. How stupid and inattentive of me. How could I have missed that?
"And where does she work?" The words come out quieter than I intend, as if even my voice, becoming cautious, fears to hear what it doesn't want to know.
Grandma lifts her eyes, slightly puzzled, as if she already knows it will be hard for me to hear. There's something in her eyes — a touch of sympathy, uncertainty, perhaps even regret.
"At school. She cleans the floors there," she says calmly, almost matter-of-factly, as if it's a normal answer to a normal question. No drama, no strain — just a fact. Like the temperature or the day of the week.
For a moment, everything around seems to freeze. Space loses depth, sounds quiet down. In my chest — a dull, heavy thud, like a stone slipping into a well. The echo of that thud lingers inside for a long time, trembling down to my fingers.
My Katrin… my clever, strong, proud, stubborn girl… and she cleans floors? The image before my eyes forms with difficulty. I try to imagine her — in the silence of a school corridor, with a bucket and mop, in work clothes — but everything inside resists. I can't believe it. It doesn't fit in my mind.
Something about it doesn't add up. It feels unreal, absurd, almost cruel. I respect any work — truly. I know that a janitor's job demands endurance, patience, dignity. It is honest labor. Daily work, often unappreciated, but essential for maintaining order. Yet my heart refuses to understand, refuses to accept it.
Katrin shouldn't be there. Not because the work is bad — no. But because it isn't for her. Not in spirit. Not in essence. She is bright, determined, intelligent, with an inner core that cannot be bent. She is someone who isn't afraid to go against the current, to make mistakes, to be herself. And now I see how that core might be broken — not by people, not by school, but by life itself, circumstances, necessity. External enemies do not always destroy us — more often, it is time, silent and merciless.
I clench my fists without even realizing it. Anger boils inside — not at her, not at Grandma, not at the school. At injustice, at fate, at my own helplessness. If she cleans our floors — even every day — I would pay her ten times more. I would do it with gratitude, with respect, with love. Because it would be her choice. Because there would be no humiliation. Only simple, warm care.
But not like this. Not there. Not in someone else's eyes, not in the cold school corridors, where they might look down on her. Where they might not notice her proud gaze, not hear her silent "I can do more," where they might walk past, unaware of who they are seeing.
Rebel Girl deserves more. She should rise, not fade in the shadows. And I know: whatever stands in her way — I will not allow this reality to silence her. I will not let the dust of everyday life settle on her wings. She is born to fly. And I will do everything to make her believe it again.
I dress hastily, fumbling with my clothes, struggling to get my arms into the sleeves. My fingers tremble as if from cold, even though it is hot. My heart pounds somewhere in my throat—dully, insistently, as if it wants to break free and run ahead of me. Everything inside me blazes—a mix of anxiety, hope, and an urgent desire to find her immediately, to hear an explanation, to understand why she hid this from me. Why she slipped into the shadows without a word.
"Where is this school?" I ask my grandmother, barely holding back a voice stretched tight like a string. Anxiety leaks through every intonation, impossible to hide.
The woman hesitates slightly—probably sensing the storm behind my words—but quickly gives me the address and explains the way. I nod, thank her on the go, hardly listening to the end of her sentence—and run out the door. The air outside feels thick, like water; I almost swim through it, driven by restless, aimless panic. I run as if chasing the very last hope, slipping away with every second.
The school turns out to be a labyrinth—three floors, identical doors, endless corridors with dim corners, the dull light of lamps, and the monotonous smell of cheap cleaning products hitting my nose. Everything feels alien, sterile, as if the world has faded. I open door after door, run up stairs after stairs, scanning every face—and with each empty classroom, my heart sinks lower.
And then, finally, at the very end of the third floor, in a far corner, almost behind a curtain of half-light, I see her. She kneels by the stairwell. Rolled-up sleeves, wet hands wringing a cloth with such rage as if she is trying to scrub not the dirt from the floor, but her own pain. Sharp, rough, strained. Her hair clings to her temples, her face pale and exhausted, yet showing no emotion. Only focus, as if clinging to this mechanical work to avoid falling apart.
I step forward. I want to touch her shoulder, to say quietly, almost pleading: "Let's go home." But before I can speak, she turns. There is something new in her eyes. Hard. Impenetrable. Like ice that can no longer be melted.
"I'm no longer yours."
Those words hit me harder than any slap could. They ring in my ears like a bell at a funeral for something important, elusive, precious. Inside, everything tightens into a knot. I don't immediately realize that Katrin actually says it—and when I do, the pain doesn't hit all at once. It spreads slowly, like poison, from within, engulfing my thoughts, soul, heart. Even the air around seems denser and heavier, as if the world itself has stepped back, leaving me alone with this cold, merciless "I'm no longer yours."
Disappointment pierces me to the core. Not anger—no, not rage. But genuine disappointment: in myself, in her, in us. That I have missed something, not heard, not understood. That nothing can be fixed anymore.
I look away. No words, no gesture—just a step back. I turn, clenching my teeth to hold back a scream, ready to leave. Let it be like all those years. If that's what she needs—so be it.
But Rebel Girl suddenly steps forward. Silently, decisively. And stands directly in my way, refusing to let me pass. I stop, almost nose-to-nose with her. Our eyes meet again—her gaze still holds that icy calm, but something beneath the surface flickers. Maybe a shadow of doubt. Maybe a trace of feeling. Maybe she is just tired of being strong.
"I didn't mean that… forgive me," she says with a slightly trembling voice, and something ignites in her eyes—not the fear of losing, no. Something much deeper. Vulnerability.
I stare at her, not moving.
"I just want to give both of you the best," I say quietly, my voice muffled as if passing through cotton. "But if you feel otherwise… I'll leave. I'll only visit Mary."
Without looking at her, I walk around, each step a struggle, as if my legs are drawn to her, but my mind has already turned away. Slowly, step by step, I move away from everything dear, close, real. The world seems to quiet—only the ringing in my ears and the sound of my ragged breath, like after running.
And then—her voice. Clear, fragile, as if plucked from a tight string, trembling yet desperately strong.
"We're coming with you!"
I freeze. The world regains sound, shape, light. I turn. Katrin stands two steps away, knees dusty, hair tousled, temples darkened from moisture. Exhausted, as if she has lived an entire lifetime, but in her eyes—flame. Bright, pure, like someone who finally understands everything.
"I agree to move to the city. But on one condition."
Her voice is even, yet trembling with meaning—not a whim, not an ultimatum, but a plea, full of the fear of losing herself.
"What condition?" I exhale carefully, as if any extra word could shatter this fragile moment. I am afraid even to breathe—it could crumble so easily.
"I want the right to pack up and leave at any moment. Back to my grandmother. Without explanations."
I look at her and understand—she isn't asking for freedom, she is asserting it. She wants to be herself, without losing that essential piece that makes her Katrin. I nod. I understand—better this way than to lose her forever. Love does not tolerate prisons. Even for the best. Especially for the best.
I step toward her, now confident, without fear, without doubt. There is a moment of acceptance—not only of her terms, but of myself. We cannot be strangers to each other if we are not free.
"Agree," I say, my voice firm, something long forgotten in it—the certainty that everything will be exactly as it should be.
Katrin doesn't smile, but a relief appears in her eyes, as if a heavy burden has been lifted. We stand facing each other, and despite everything that divides us, I know one thing: there is still hope.
"Good. You can go resign, because you won't be working here anymore. We're leaving tomorrow; my studies start again on Monday."
I say it without a shadow of doubt, but inside, something trembles, as if something important, tightly tied to me, has begun to fall apart. I feel the weight of this decision, as if tearing away something familiar, dear. Her eyes, when Katrin looks at me, are full of disbelief, as if she cannot believe my words, as if I have deprived her of something important. A flicker of uncertainty passes through her gaze, but I know this step is necessary. I cannot go back alone. Everything is decided, and despite the inner storm, I am firm.