I lay everything out carefully, as if performing an important ritual, trying to restore some order to this chaotic day. Every movement is measured, as if through them I am trying to keep both myself and the world around me from chaos. Returning to the kitchen, I bring another knife for the cake, napkins, and small plates for the already sliced cake.
"Alright, I'll set aside a piece for Maxim, Mary, and Grandma right away, if you don't mind," I say, starting to cut the cake into roughly five equal parts, trying to make everything look perfect, as if through this I could pass a little bit of care and warmth to those who aren't here. My hands tremble slightly, but I carefully control every cut, as if the precision carries the very essence of my love and responsibility.
"You're thoughtful, since you remembered to leave some for them," she suddenly praises me, and I feel a warm sensation rise inside — acknowledgment, small but meaningful. It's as if, for a moment, someone sees my soul, senses what hides behind words and actions. It feels like a small ray of light in the thick fog of doubt and pain.
"I don't forget those I love," I say, setting the pieces aside and putting them in the fridge.
"Do you really love him?" she asks, meaning Maxim, and her voice carries genuine, cautious interest. This question touches something very deep, making my heart pause and quiver for a moment.
"More than myself or anyone else in this world," I answer honestly, revealing nothing but the truth, my words deeply personal, as if I am opening a piece of my soul to her. In that moment, I feel like I'm exposing my inner world — unadorned and unguarded, only truth and pain, flowing from the deepest part of my heart.
"Then why did you leave him?" The question makes my heart tremble.
It's so hard to answer — it hurts, bringing up old wounds and doubts. I want to run from it, hide, but I know I need to speak.
"I found out I was pregnant. Maxim ends up dropping out of institute and going to work. I didn't want to ruin his future, so I left silently, without saying a word," I reply briefly, avoiding details, as if trying to protect both him and myself from extra pain. My voice carries fatigue, but also a kind of steel resolve — I made this choice for him, though it cost me dearly.
"Then why did you come back? He hasn't finished institute yet," she continues, and I feel each phrase weighing my truth, trying to understand it. It feels like all my words are being scrutinized, judged, adding weight to already heavy memories.
"His mother said I took money from her in exchange for leaving him. I only took it because I needed it to pay for the future birth, and life still had to go on. I also sold that apartment, but a few years later, Maxim bought it back. That was enough for three years. Then I started working as a cleaner in the local school," I explain, feeling a slight unease, but unwilling to hide the truth.
He trusts her, and I don't want to argue. I reveal nothing intimate or secret — just facts that explain a lot. My words carry bitterness and fatigue, but also a quiet hope for understanding.
"I didn't think you were like that," she admits, hearing my story, and her voice carries surprise mixed with respect.
That acknowledgment feels like a small victory, as if someone finally sees me not as an image, but as a real person — with all my complexities and contradictions.
"What kind? A traitor?" I can't help but tease a little, testing her reaction. I feel vulnerable, but I want to know how sincere her assessment is.
"Strong. I thought you were a flirt and didn't care about Max," now I am listening to her revelations.
Her words make me reflect — maybe people see us differently, and the truth is always deeper than surface judgments. Inside me, a quiet sense of relief and pride rises.
We spend many hours talking about many things. At first, it's about the past, slow, tangled, full of pain and unspoken words. These memories come out gradually, like thick dough from the depths of the soul. Step by step, we pull old conversations, grievances, and awkward moments from memory. Everything surfaces — sometimes sharp like a splinter, sometimes hazy and blurred like dreams. It's like clearing debris, examining every pebble to finally see the light through the dust of the past. There's something almost sacred about it — as if we step over old wounds, not closing our eyes, but facing them.
Then, gradually, as if a weight is lifted from the soul, the conversation turns personal. By personal, I mean simple, sincere communication — not about relationships, not about drama, but about ourselves. Who we are, what we love, what we fear, what we're made of. These words flow quietly, but deeply. It's as if, removing our armor, we allow each other to look into the core of our beings. Without shame. Without defense. Just — me and her, as we are.
It's surprisingly pleasant to talk to her. I catch myself smiling, my shoulders relaxed, my voice softer. It's as if I finally allow myself to be me, not someone else's reflection, not a figure in someone else's drama. She laughs — genuinely, a little shyly, as if surprised that we can just be people, not opponents. There's so much purity and unexpected tenderness in that laughter that I feel a pang of joy. I realize we've become friends. Maybe not best friends yet, not for life, but in this moment — yes. We are on the same side. The warmth spreads across my chest like a sip of hot tea on a cold morning.
And suddenly — the click of a lock. We hear the key turn in the door, and everything around seems to freeze. Time seems suspended; the air thickens. We understand: my beloved man is back. My heart tightens with excitement and a touch of fear — not for myself, but for the fragile atmosphere we just created. As if the thin fabric of trust could tear with any sudden move.
"Family, I'm home," he announces, entering the room where we are. His voice, usually warm and calm, sounds a little tense this time — as if he senses the air has changed, as if something has shifted imperceptibly.
I run to him almost instantly — instinctively, as if I want to stand between him and any potential storm. I place my hand lightly on his chest, restrained, like stroking, like trying to put all the silence that Alice and I achieved into this touch. I silently beg: — Don't ruin this. Let it stay. God forbid he lashes out at her, ruins everything…
"Alice?" he says, his voice sharp, cold, and cutting like a blade. I feel his chest tense under my hand. His muscles stiffen, breathing quickens. His gaze flashes instant anger, mixed with confusion.
"You know, I'll go. We'll talk some other time," Alice hurries to gather herself, almost panicking, as if afraid his anger will fall on her.
But there's no real fear in her gestures — more caution. She isn't angry; in her eyes is something like understanding. Maybe even sympathy. She doesn't want to escalate. She doesn't want to break the thin thread we just rebuilt.
"Come again, I'll be glad to chat," I say after her, trying to keep my voice calm and warm, like saying goodbye to a friend you truly hope to see again. And it's true. I really want her to come back.
The door closes softly, and tense silence fills the room — so dense it feels like you could cut it with a knife.
"Care to explain?" my man asks, but his voice has changed — there's no anger now, only insistence and the demand to understand.
My Rebel Boy pulls my hand closer to his body, as if seeking truth, connection, trust in this touch. I feel his heart beating under my palm — fast, but no longer with anger.
"Alice came to apologize. She brought flowers and a cake. By the way, your piece is in the fridge," I answer calmly, almost matter-of-factly, though inside I still tremble slightly. Like after a storm, when everything seems calm, but distant echoes remain in the sky.
"And then what?" His gaze is cautious, tinged with doubt, uncertainty — maybe he doesn't even know how to react. His tone carries a struggle: between mistrust and desire to understand, between jealousy and acceptance.
"We became friends. She turns out to be a good girl when she's not shouting that I'm a traitor," I answer, laughing, trying to ease the atmosphere.
The laugh is slightly strained but genuine — for in this strange, unpredictable meeting, there really is something good. Something real. And maybe even healing.