I find my mom sitting in the armchair. She crosses her arms and legs, as if putting an invisible barrier between herself and the whole world, in protest and detachment. Her gaze is fixed on the window, but her eyes look empty, as if she is trying to escape into her thoughts and shut herself off from what is happening around her. It is as if she is hiding, concealing herself from pain and tension, but I cannot allow her to stay in this idle silence that is pulling us tighter and tighter into a whirlpool of misunderstanding.
"What are you doing, Mom?" I ask, feeling irritation and helplessness rising inside me. My voice trembles with strain, but in it there is also bitterness and pain. Anger starts boiling in my chest, spreading through my body like a hot wave. I already regret bringing my girls here, dragging them into this storm.
Why is she always like this? Why this wall of detachment, this coldness that blocks the way to her heart like an icy shield? Why can't she just be a good grandmother to Mary—kind, gentle, attentive, someone you can come to with warmth and certainty? Or at least, at the very beginning, just be a mother to me—a support, a pillar, someone who understands and won't turn away? Why, in her eyes, instead of love and understanding, is there always something distant, as if we are strangers to each other? This question hangs like a heavy burden deep in my soul, hurting and giving me no peace.
"I am doing this? Have you even seen how they behave?" she answers, suddenly jumping out of the chair and taking a standing position, as if determined to show her rightness and strength in everything. Her voice sounds sharp, filled not only with offense but also with accumulated exhaustion. She is ready for an argument, ready to defend her opinion, as if it is her last line of defense.
"Oh really! Do you remember how I behaved at that age, when I was two years old?" I try to bring her back to reality, appealing to our shared memories, to what we once had between us. I want to find at least the smallest point of connection.
"You were the perfect boy!" my mom roars, throwing me a glance full of emotion and hurt. These are words she says not so much to praise me as to justify herself—to prove her rightness, to defend herself.
"Please, don't lie. When I was five, we went to visit your friends. And as a result—I spilled a bowl of soup all over myself. You kept apologizing for a long time afterward," I remind her, and with every phrase those awkward moments come alive in my memory, those feelings of shame and vulnerability, as if it happened only yesterday.
"It doesn't matter, you were still a good boy."
"And why is that? Because you are his mother?" suddenly Katrin interferes, appearing out of nowhere. Her voice is cold and harsh, carrying such unyielding determination that it takes my breath away.
"Yes. Why, is there any doubt? Unlike you, I am a good mother!" my mom answers sharply, her words piercing me like a knife, tearing my heart apart. I realize everything can now end in scandal, and I fear this more than anything.
"How two-faced you are. What good mother sends her son to a boarding school? Even after the divorce you never took him back. What, did you think he would get in the way of your personal life?" Katrin's words sound like thunder from a clear sky. They are sharp, painful, filled with justice and bitterness. These words pierce right through me, and I feel my breath stop, my heart clench with pain.
An invisible but tangible wave hangs in the air—a wave of pain and truth, so strong it makes my fingers tremble. I want to stop her, to interfere, to shout, because I understand how this truth might end. But it is too late.
It has already begun.
My mom, her face twisted with anger and bitterness, almost instantly approaches Rebel Girl and suddenly slaps her. It is a sharp, stinging movement—in it merge exhaustion, despair, and an unspoken cry, as if all the pain and anger accumulated over the years break out in a single moment. The ringing sound of the slap spreads through the room like a gunshot—sharp, burning, tearing apart the heavy silence.
I do not have time to do anything, I even feel everything inside me freeze from this sudden move. As if time stops for a second. My heart stumbles, my breath breaks, and I stand silently, unable to interfere, nailed to the floor by my own helplessness.
Katrin, shocked, as if not believing what just happened, slowly raises her hand and touches her cheek where she has just been struck—gently, as if wanting to erase the moment from her skin. And I see tears begin to fall from her eyes—heavy, transparent, like drops of pain that cannot find words. It is hard to watch, unbearable. My throat tightens, as if someone is squeezing it from the inside. But I cannot change anything in this moment. Absolutely nothing. And that, perhaps, is the scariest part.
"You will never see me or your granddaughter again!" she says with such despair and bitterness that I feel her words penetrate me. And then she runs out of the room, leaving me alone with my mom.
"How could you, Mom? She gave you a chance to be a grandmother, but you just cannot calm down. What difference does it make who Mary's mom is, if I brought your granddaughter here so you could meet her? But no, you disliked everything from the very start. What did she do wrong? She told you the truth to your face. You really did abandon me and came to see me only twice a year, and sometimes only once." The words burst out of me on their own, heavy and painful. I cannot keep it all inside, I need to finally say it.
My mom is silent, not looking at me. She listens, and that is the worst of all. I want to keep going, to pour everything out just once, but I know every word of mine will be lost in the emptiness of her silence.
"Yes, you sent me packages. But love cannot be sent in a parcel, just like attention and care. You left me there alone and forgot. At the same time, you started a new life where there was no place for me. And now it is the same. In your heart and in your life there is no little space for my daughter. Then she will not have a grandmother, just as I did not have a mother since I was eleven. And you will stay here alone, in this empty house, just as you want," the last words burst out of me, and I feel a lump in my throat choking my breath. I cannot stay here any longer.
I also decide to leave this house, for it is foreign to me. After today, it has become even colder and more distant, as if it has finally rejected me. In its air, there is no warmth, no memories—only emptiness and a faint taste of alienation. Every detail, every shadow reminds me that I am out of place here. And I realize: staying here is like slowly disappearing. That is why I leave.
"Maxim! Please, don't go!" my mother rushes to me, grabbing my hand as if trying to hold not just me, but the entire collapsing world around her. Her fingers clutch my palm with desperation, and her voice trembles with a plea, filled with the fear of losing me. But I am determined. Inside, everything is already decided.
"No need. I have to calm Katrin after you. If you want to talk, not now," I say calmly but firmly, letting go of her hand.
In that touch, there is everything: farewell, guilt, exhaustion that I can no longer bear. I turn away and leave the house. My legs move almost automatically, as if my body knows the way out, even if my soul hasn't caught up yet. The house, once warm and full of voices, now feels like a stone box, lifeless and indifferent. I can no longer be here.
Outside, they are already waiting. Rebel Girl with our daughter sits in the back seat of the car. She hugs Mary, burying her face in her hair. In this pose, there is so much anxiety, so much maternal pain, that my heart tightens. It seems she is trying to hide from the world, pressing into this small, familiar island of warmth. Her shoulders tremble barely noticeably, as if she fights a storm inside her—that refuses to let go of fear, guilt, or despair.
I sit behind the wheel in silence, neither looking nor speaking. I start the car, and with a muted growl, the engine comes alive. I drive. Not toward the house—it does not pull me. I steer the car in the opposite direction, away from the walls, the gaze, the heavy air, and the echoing memories in my head. I crave silence. Freedom. Or at least the illusion of it.
Inside me, everything is dark, like an abandoned house without windows and light. A weight sits in my chest, like suffocation, as if someone has placed a stone there—heavy, cold, and merciless. I feel it growing darker with every turn of the road. The silence in the cabin cuts through the ears, reminding me that something important is about to happen. That there may no longer be a way back.
I stop the car near the forest—where almost unreal nature's silence begins—and exhale. Deeply, slowly, as if shedding part of the burden pressing from within. I know: the conversation will be hard. And possibly irreversible.
"We need to talk. Can you step out?" I say, not turning my head, looking straight ahead into the thickening twilight, into nowhere.
My hand rests on the wheel, knuckles white from grip. And my thoughts… they are far away. In the past. In mistakes. In the endless "what ifs" that return like blades, tearing the soul to shreds.
"No," Katrin says firmly.
Her voice is calm, almost even, but it rings with unwavering resolve. Not a threat—more like a shield. She does not move, and this simple, monosyllabic phrase pierces me through. In it is everything: fear, resistance, the desire to protect herself. Her refusal is not stubbornness—it is a cry from within, an attempt to hold onto some control.
And yet, irritation flares up inside me. It rises in a wave, hot and burning, trying to drown out compassion. It fights understanding like fire fights rain—not destroying, but intensifying.
"I don't want to talk in front of Mary, so I ask you, let's go out," I address her again.
Quietly. Almost pleading. My voice trembles, and I feel it. Because I know: this conversation cannot happen in front of the child. I do not want her pure eyes to absorb our pain. At least a little peace… at least a little space between the screams and past wounds.
Rebel Girl remains silent. Her gaze is tense, struggling—an inner battle, invisible but palpable, like the rumble of an approaching storm. I wait. And the wait is agonizing, like the silence before a storm, when the air is taut as a string.
"Okay," she finally replies. Her voice sounds tired. As if she surrendered. Or simply can no longer maintain her defense. But there is agreement in it. And in that moment, relief sweeps through my body—light, timid. Like the first breath after a long submersion in dark water.
"My little one, stay here, we need to talk to your father," she says to her daughter, her voice softening, almost lullaby-like. In that gaze—so much warmth, so much love—that the heart trembles. It is the look of a mother desperately trying to keep at least one part of her life untouched.
Mary nods. Calmly, trustingly, childlike. Her eyes—a clear mirror—reflect all our anxiety, still not understood by her.
"Yeah," the girl responds, simply and brightly. And that word—short, innocent—sounds almost like a prayer. Like a promise that, no matter what, she will remain the light. That very small light in the gathering darkness.