A couple of minutes later, I follow him. The house is quiet, with only the soft clinking of a spoon against the edge of a cup. Maxim stands by the table, pouring himself coffee from the jar, moving calmly and with a kind of homey coziness. His movements are measured, as if he is in his own rhythm, warm and familiar. His silhouette seems especially familiar in the dim kitchen, where soft, muted light falls from the lamp above the stove, outlining his shoulders, hair, and features—like an old photograph that suddenly comes to life.
I approach him and hug him from behind—slowly, almost hesitantly, as if afraid he will pull away. My heart pounds somewhere in my throat, my palms tremble slightly. I press my cheek against his back, burying myself in the fabric of his T-shirt, soaked with his scent, so familiar and comforting, like a blanket you wrap yourself in on a bad day.
My beloved continues what he is doing, without reacting sharply or coldly. More precisely, after pouring coffee, he adds sugar to his cup, as if my sudden gesture is natural to him. As if my touch has become part of this quiet evening, like the breathing of the walls, like the kettle's hiss.
"Forgive me, Max," I ask, feeling my heart tighten with guilt.
Inside, something seems to crumple, shrinking into a little ball. I understand that I have, for no reason, rattled his nerves—stupidly, without thinking, impulsively, like a frightened child. After all, he only ever wants to do good for us, and I ruin everything again, as if I cannot appreciate the simple human happiness he brings me on a silver platter, openly, without conditions.
"I forgave you for the past a long time ago. I don't want revenge or suffering because of it anymore. Is it really that hard to believe?" my man asks, completely stopping his movements.
The spoon he is using to stir sugar freezes in the air, and he pauses, listening to the kettle as it boils. His voice is soft, but it carries the fatigue of the pain we both tried to leave behind. Deep, accumulated, not loud—like calm after a storm.
"I believed you before your words… After them, I got carried away somewhere because of my imagination… I know I'm foolish," I try to explain my behavior, struggling to find the words. As if justifying myself to myself. I feel vulnerable and weak, as if standing barefoot on a cold floor.
My beloved puts his hand over mine—warm, familiar, confident. Simply pressing them lightly in his, he seems to remind me: "I'm here. I'm with you. Everything is fine."
"I love you, and it would disgust me to do such a thing. Especially knowing it would only bring you pain," he says, turning to me, and taking my face in his hands, begins to wipe away my tears. His touch is careful, almost reverent, as if afraid to break the fragility of the moment by accident. He looks at me with a sincerity in which I want to drown, like in a hot bath after a long day.
"Let's forget about it, so don't cry about it anymore. Better, let's talk about the date I want to arrange—for the three of us," he suggests, and, nodding, I agree, unable to speak. Words get stuck in my throat, but my heart has already warmed a little.
"Do you want coffee?" Maxim asks, kissing me on the lips and smiling slightly, as if bringing me back to reality and adding light to it. His gaze is gentle, warm—the same one that can melt any anxiety.
"No, I don't want it. Better chamomile tea," I ask, trying to regain my calm. His care seems to pull me from the inside out, bringing me back to myself.
"Then sit at the table, and I'll do everything."
I don't want to ask anything again or interfere, and I silently sit at the table by the window, crossing my arms on my lap, watching him fuss by the stove with tender homey care. Everything in his movements is warm, almost like an invisible language of love.
After finishing, he brings the cups and places them on the table, then sits opposite me. Steam rises from the cups, filling the kitchen with a light, soothing aroma. There is something familiar in this aroma, like the smell of childhood, like memories of peaceful, happy evenings.
"I thought for a long time. And I came up with an idea: let's repeat our old date, but now with our little girl. What do you think, which one?" my beloved asks with interest, his eyes sparkling mischievously, like before. That light returns in them, making something warm bloom inside me.
"I have no idea. Honestly, don't be offended," I answer, feeling the heaviness in my chest grow again.
Everything is like a haze, as if feelings cloud my reason, as if my heart aches under a blanket of memories and fears. Honestly, after our quarrel, because of my, as it turns out, foolishness, my head hurts, and I don't particularly want to think about anything.
"Stop imagining that I am offended or will be offended. I have no grudges," Maxim replies with the same calm that hides strength. His words settle on my soul like a warm compress. "I want, on Sunday, if the weather allows, to go to the amusement park during the day, the three of us. We've been there, but in the evening," he reminds me, as if carefully opening the door to one of the warmest memories.
"What do you think?" my beloved asks, looking intently into my eyes. In that gaze is acceptance. And hope. And love that does not require proof.
In reality, I am upset, even to a small, quiet depression that covers me like a dense gray blanket. Everything inside echoes with doubts, reverberating in my chest, bouncing off the walls of my soul, giving no peace. It feels like wandering through a twisted, dark labyrinth of my own fears, where every turn leads to new anxious thoughts.
Now it seems that I do not deserve him—this warm, strong, patient man. And what he does for us with our daughter… it seems almost like an undeserved gift, as if I have taken a place meant for someone else, better. I, at the very least, do not deserve it. This feeling of guilt slowly gnaws from within, leaving bitterness and helplessness behind.
But I have already promised—not to leave him. Not to betray. Not to hurt him or myself anymore. I will not allow myself to destroy again what we carefully, step by step, with reverence and hope, have built. It is fragile, like glass, but precious and real.
I understand that this is probably more self-suggestion than reality. My head just becomes an arena for internal struggle at these moments. So I will not take any rash actions. I have learned to be careful with my emotions—not because I have become hardened, but because I know too well the damage a single thoughtless word or step can cause, which I, unfortunately, have done again today.
"Wonderful idea. Especially since last time we saw so many happy children. So I'm sure Mary will like it," I say with a smile, gathering the strength to be happy here and now.
Even if it takes effort. It's enough that I ruined his rest after studying. I don't want to spoil this warm and calm evening further with my mood swings.
"I think so too. While she is having fun, we can also enjoy ourselves," Max replies with a wink, and that makes me blush. I smile involuntarily, as if for the first time in a long while, genuinely.
"I think she'll recover by then," he adds with a note of confidence that spreads to me as well.
"Yes, she's almost better already," I agree with him, and for the first time all evening, a faint hope sounds in my voice. It appears quietly, like the first ray of sun on a cloudy morning—unnoticeable, yet warm.
"I'm going with Vi on Wednesday," he reminds me, as if putting a full stop at the conversation I try to push aside in my mind.
His voice is calm, even, as if it's simply a statement of fact, but behind that external quiet hides inevitability, which tightens inside me—a knot of anxiety rising in my chest, preventing me from breathing freely.
"Have you decided where you'll be with Mary at that time?" my beloved asks, looking closely at my face, as if trying to read my emotions in my eyes, to uncover all the doubts and fears I have tried in vain to hide.
He knows how hard solitude is for me, especially after we've been together again. With my daughter, it's fun too—her laughter is like music, light and clear, her eyes sparkling with happiness when we are together. But she, despite all her liveliness and wisdom beyond her years, is still a child. In her embrace, you won't find the strong shoulder to lean on during hard moments when the world feels fragile and unpredictable. She cannot support me like an adult can, like he can—like someone who can accept my pain without words.
"I don't want to bother Grandma… She's just started resting from us," I reason aloud, my words uncertain, as if I am trying to convince myself they are right, that this is truly the best option. "We already worry Vera enough… Besides, she said she likes to be alone in the apartment at this time and start a huge cleaning spree."
My words are careful because I understand that behind this "rest" is her own way of coping with fatigue and anxiety. I can almost see this scene before me: Vera, in her cozy home robe, with an engrossed sparkle in her eyes that sometimes replaces a smile, wiping windowsills, moving furniture—as if reclaiming control over the space around her, which sometimes feels foreign. Her cleaning is almost a ritual, a way to put order not only in the house but in herself, arranging thoughts and feelings that scatter in different directions.
"Oh yes! And then she hits Vi because he ruins the beauty with his dirty feet," Maxim laughs, and in that laugh is some warm nostalgia, as if he is mentally returning to the past, remembering those funny and at the same time touching moments. His eyes light up with memories that seem to warm him from within.
"That's true, Grandpa gets it from Vera," I agree, smiling as I remember how Viktor quietly complained about his wife's strictness.
I can still hear his voice, half-joking, half-serious, telling how Vera spared no mercy because of the dirt he brought into the house. And her blows, though driven by irritation, sometimes left real bruises… Poor man. In those moments, a certain strength awoke in her, enviable even to fighters. Vera is a woman with an iron will, capable of strictness, but she loved in her own way, deeply and sincerely.
"So, so that your girls don't suffer from this woman, we won't go to her," I conclude with mock seriousness.
"So, you'll stay with my mom? Aren't you afraid of her wrath?" he asks with a grin, reminding me of the day she slapped me. His tone is light, playful, as if trying to chase away shadows of the past, but something pricks my chest—a memory of that pain, confusion, that first misunderstanding when the world felt so foreign and unfair.
Now it's in the past. We have learned to exist together without stepping on each other's sore spots. We didn't become close, like I am with my grandmother, but perhaps it wasn't necessary. She gave us a chance—me and my daughter. She opened the door and let us be part of her world. I am grateful for that, though I still think that everything could have been done differently, more gently, more warmly… Without the "concert" from the first meeting, without these resentments after so many years apart.
"Yes," I answer briefly, but this yes carries more meaning than a long speech. It is my quiet choice. A decision made by the heart, even though burdened with fears and doubts.
"Then on Tuesday evening we'll go to her. And by Thursday morning, the three of us will be together at home again. I'm sure the time will fly, and we'll be together again, my love," my man says softly, hugging me and pressing me to himself, as if shielding me from everything that worries me. His embrace is warm, reliable—like an anchor in the stormy sea of my feelings.
I smile through the slight sadness. As if agreeing. Although inside, everything resists this separation. I don't want to let go. I don't want to count the hours again. But if it's necessary—I will manage. For him. For us. For that love which is my strength and, at the same time, my weakness.