When we come home, the three of us immediately fall asleep together. My body aches pleasantly from fatigue — it is that sweet, warm tiredness when every muscle is grateful for the chance to rest. In the cozy silence of the apartment, we dissolve in the embrace of the warm bed, as if it accepts us into its soft, familiar womb. Tonight we sleep together — it is cramped, but so homely, so family-like, so real. It feels especially precious to have my loved ones next to me, to hear their steady, peaceful breathing, to feel the warmth of their bodies that sinks deep under my skin and warms even my soul.
Since Maxim is now part of our life, I start teaching my daughter to sleep at least sometimes without me. It is not easy — until now she has always slept either with me or with her grandmother. Every movement she makes at night I feel with my skin, as if our bodies are connected by an invisible thread. Every breath of hers calms me, brings me back into balance. And now, letting her go into another room, I feel not only pride in her first step toward independence but also a light anxiety, as if a part of me goes on a journey without a return ticket. Still, it is a step — small, but so meaningful.
But it is good that she can sleep on her own, because during the day Mary does it calmly and confidently, without fuss, with a child's trust in the world. So she is not afraid to sleep alone. Of course, at her age we cannot settle her in the children's room completely — my heart does not allow it. But we manage at least a few nights a week when she sleeps alone in another room. And it already feels like an achievement, a small victory that we win together with patience and love. Her sleep is deep, as if her guardian angel holds her hand all night, whispering peaceful dreams. The most important thing is to put her to bed properly, with the usual rituals: a story, a kiss, a hug — all of this like a spell that guards her rest. After that she rarely wakes up and almost never comes to us. Nightmares are rare for her, and that calms my mother's heart — I do not have to fear leaving her alone, knowing she is protected.
By nature, my girl is like me — brave, confident, with a lively look full of interest in everything new, as if in every day she seeks adventure and joy. Although, seeing the new Maxim, I am no longer sure whom she takes after. He becomes like me in character. But now he is once again patient, attentive, restrained, and at the same time warm, with that rare ability to hear not only words but also the silence between them. Although sometimes I notice how he slowly begins to turn back into what he once was — more closed, withdrawn, with a gaze directed inward. But I see the struggle in him, the inner work, and I see how, for our sake, he straightens his shoulders again, tries to stay close, tries not to lose himself and not to lose us.
I wake up alone. The room is filled with half-light, soft and cozy, like the breath of morning itself. The curtains are tightly closed, not letting in a single ray of sunlight. Yet I clearly remember that we forgot to close them yesterday. So it must be… Maxim. Once again he shows that same care that warms the soul more than any words. He loves me. Truly. And I feel it even in such small things as dimmed light or a carefully tucked blanket. These quiet gestures are his language of love, calm and steady, just like him.
It feels so good to be loved by him. This is a quiet happiness, not loud, not stormy — but the truest, most reliable, like the heartbeat next to mine. And I try to care for him in the same way he cares for us. Without words. Just by being near, just by being there for him, so that he always feels: he is no longer alone and never will be again.
When I step out of the room, I see Mary sitting by the sofa, drawing something in her sketchbook. Small, focused, with the tip of her tongue sticking out, she is immersed in her world full of lines and colors, where she feels free. So serious, so sweet... She does not notice me, and I quietly, trying not to disturb the moment, pass by, watching how children's art is born, how peace is born.
I keep walking until I hear noise in the kitchen. So here is where my beloved is. My heart instantly tightens with tenderness, as if someone gently touches the most sensitive place inside me. Opening the door, I enter and immediately hug him from behind. He is warm, familiar, real — the very man one dreams of but rarely meets.
My man is making breakfast — the smells spread through the apartment, mixing with the aroma of love and comfort. Once again I am wrapped in his care — gentle, enveloping, like a blanket on a raw morning, like strong tea in the quiet of the kitchen, like music that plays only for us.
"Good morning, my love," my man says, putting the pan aside and turning off the stove. His voice is full of tenderness, as if with this phrase he wants to hug me with words, to warm my day from its very beginning.
Finishing with the stove, he turns to me and kisses me while holding me in his arms. It is a kiss without hurry — conscious, warm, as if confirming that we are a family, that we are here, together, no matter what.
"Good morning, my beloved. Thank you for the curtains and the breakfast," I tell him, and my words instantly light up his face with a smile. So real, so bright, like the morning light breaking through a gap in the curtain.
"We were tired yesterday, and I did not want the light to disturb your sleep," he explains, and in his voice I hear care that never feels like duty, only like desire — sincere, kind, warm.
"Yesterday we tired ourselves out, not our daughter, in the end," I remind him with a smile. I want to lighten this morning closeness, to make it even more homely, more alive. "And what are the plans after breakfast?" I ask, trying to sound light, as if casually, though I know that most likely he has a pile of tasks again and probably cannot be with us all day.
"Sorry, but I have things to do. I need to call Vi and arrange for him to come to Mom's house at night and pick me up from there. I also need to call Mom and tell her that you and Mary will be with her for a day. Besides that, I also need to deal with some work reports. So my day is going to be busy, even though physically I am at home," he explains his schedule, trying to speak calmly, without unnecessary tension, but I feel — he is already going through the list in his head, sorting it like a chess player planning his moves.
"Do you want me to call them?" I ask, and in this question there is a sincere wish to help, to make his day a little easier, to give him a pause, to gift him a little silence in the stream of duties.
"No, my dear. With each of them I have things to discuss and things to say. So I need to tell them myself," he hugs me, as if with this gesture he wants to lift the weight off me, to calm me, to bring me back to a state of peace and acceptance. "Just don't be upset. Yesterday I was glad to switch off my phone and spend time with my girls."
How could I ever be upset with him? It is impossible not to love him. He is my quiet happiness, my everything at once. He only needs to be loved… and his work needs to be met with understanding. Because behind it there is more than just "business." Behind it is our life. Our real, living, feeling, caring life.
"It's nothing, we still have plenty of time to spend together. So don't even think you can run away from Mary and me for long," I wag my finger at him playfully, pretending to scold, but in my eyes tenderness sparkles, along with a light sadness hiding deep inside my gaze. I try to conceal the tremor in my voice, but my heart is already missing him, already sensing separation, as if it feels that soon it will once again be left without a part of itself.
Maxim takes my hand so gently, brings it closer to his lips, and without looking away from me — with his warm, mischievous glance, where his usual mockery sparkles and also something else, something deeper — he licks my index finger, the same one I just playfully shook at him. The gesture is childish, almost funny — and at the same time painfully intimate.
"Nobody is going anywhere, so don't worry," says Rebel Boy, still in that joking tone, and lightly bites my finger, as if putting a seal on his promise. Warmth and calm spread through me from his touch, as if the world finds its balance again, as if I once again find a point of support — temporary maybe, but real.
We have breakfast together. Everything is cozy, homely, almost magical: unhurried, with exchanges of glances, smiles, and light touches — the kind that, like sparks from a fire, do not burn but flare up in the heart. In these little things I feel something invisible yet incredibly strong, that binds us like a fine but unbreakable thread, woven from trust, love, and countless moments we have lived through together.
After breakfast he turns on his equipment and dives completely into work — the usual ritual he seems unable to rest from, as if behind this tension hides his need to feel control, stability, purpose.
I decide not to disturb him and dedicate this time to Mary. We spend the whole day in play, in laughter, in embraces. Her childish laughter is like music — ringing, alive, able to drive away any anxiety. And her happiness is my own. I catch every emotion of hers like a treasure, like proof that there is light and meaning in the world. Maxim sometimes gets distracted and comes to us, looks at us with love, hugs, smiles, as if soaking in this comfort — but then he goes back to his work again, as if someone inside keeps calling him and he cannot disobey.
We do not resent him. Not in the least. We know — we understand that he does not do this because he doesn't want to be with us, but because he must. Because his conscience, his duty, are part of who he is. All this time I keep catching myself thinking that the longer he works, the sooner he can free himself and be only with us again. We wait. Patiently and lovingly. And in this patience there is no suffering, but strength — that very feminine, deep, calm strength that knows how to wait.
So the whole day passes — quiet, filled with small happy moments. Smiles, random glances, light touches, the smell of homemade food, and the clinking of dishes. So simple, and so priceless.