We spend the day happily together. First, I feed her, trying to do everything as carefully and correctly as possible, filling every movement with care and love. Katrin and I discussed over a month ago what the baby can eat and what she can't — after all, she is her mother, and like any mother, she knows which foods are good for a child and which can cause stomachaches or colic. Every child is unique, and their reactions differ, so I cannot know for sure what will be good for Mary or not, and I pay close attention to all recommendations so as not to harm her, feeling deep respect for my granddaughter's health and well-being.
Besides that, we talk about the amount of sweets and how much time she can spend watching TV or cartoons online — trying to find a subtle balance between pleasure and benefit, between joy and concern for her health.
I do not want to break the girl's routines and rules because, honestly, I mostly agree with them. It's a delicate matter of respecting what is important to parents and understanding that their love for the child is expressed even in such small things — it is in this gentle attention to detail that true care lies.
After dinner, my granddaughter quietly comes to me with big, trusting eyes — shining with that special childlike sincerity and tenderness that you never tire of cherishing and loving. She softly asks, "Shall we go to the playground?" — and in her voice, there is a simple yet touching hope for shared time, for our little joy.
We often walk there, and this place is a small oasis of joy and freedom for us — a secluded corner where the adult world can step back, giving way to carefreeness and laughter. Near the house stands the playground with good swings and bright slides that seem to invite her into their magical, colorful world, where Mary can forget everything and immerse herself in childhood dreams.
The sun still shines gently, filling everything around with warm golden light, and the sky is a tender blue, like smooth silk — all of this creates an atmosphere of peace and happiness. I cannot deny her this simple but so important joy because such moments are like precious pearls you want to protect. We quickly get dressed and go outside — everything seems familiar, calm, and kind.
But suddenly, this calm, like fragile glass, cracks and shatters — three men approach us. Their appearance immediately causes an unpleasant feeling of anxiety, as if a chill runs down my spine, and my heart freezes for a moment with a sense of impending danger. One of them, thin with an unpleasant look, stares directly at me, and his eyes reveal hidden threat and cunning. His voice sounds sharply, cutting through the silence like a knife.
"Hello. Are you Maxim's mother?" and these words, simple at first glance, sound like a challenge.
Feeling my heart start to beat faster and faster, as if trying to escape my chest, I automatically shield my granddaughter, instinctively becoming her protector, a wall between her and danger.
"Yes. And who are you?" I ask, trying to stay calm, although inside, a mixture of fear, tension, and determination boils like a hot fire that does not allow me to give up.
"I… hmm, clearly not his friend. Although I know him and Katrin," in his words, there is obvious audacity, as if he is trying to impose his presence on us, intrude into our life uninvited.
"What's your name?" I ask, squeezing Mary's hand tighter, feeling her small body tremble next to me, and my heart breaks with anxiety.
"My name is Ivan. And I have some problems, and Katrin and Maxim will help me solve them," he declares with a challenge and arrogance that make my blood run cold, freeze, and stick in my throat. At that moment, I feel the world around me narrow to a tiny space of threat and danger.
"I don't think so," I respond firmly, feeling inner strength grow despite the fear, as if a spark of unshakable determination ignites in my chest.
"So, you don't want to cooperate?" he asks mockingly, stretching his words like a sting, and I only shake my head in refusal, feeling the tension in the air thicken, like before a storm. The air becomes sticky, like molasses from fear, and every second stretches endlessly.
Then his voice changes — commanding, cold, like a knife blade, merciless, as if he already knows he has won:
"Guys, grab the little one. I don't need the old lady."
In that moment, my heart pounds in my chest with such force, as if it wants to break free, screaming a silent warning of danger. Panic hits me like a wave of ice.
"Mary, run!" — I shout in a torn voice, a mix of plea and despair. I hope she makes it, that her little legs carry her away, to freedom, far from this nightmare.
Mary rushes forward, her eyes wide with terror, reflecting hope and fear. But she does not take three steps before one of the men grabs her abruptly. It feels like a blow to my chest — as if light and joy are ripped from my world, tearing the invisible but strong bond between us.
I scream like a beast deprived of its cub and rush at him, clawing, scratching, trying to pull her from his hands. But I am weaker — my body does not obey, and he holds her tightly, like a doll, ignoring my efforts.
Suddenly, Ivan appears — his face twisted with anger and some terrible satisfaction. He approaches me and pushes with all his strength. The world sways. I fall to the ground, hitting hard, darkness flashing before my eyes, and a sharp, knife-like pain explodes in my side, resonating through every cell.
I try to get up but cannot — my legs buckle, my breath fails. Somewhere in the distance, the sound of a car driving away reaches me, and through the growing noise in my head pierces Mary's voice — her scream, piercing, full of terror, despair, and hopelessness.
"Grandma-aa-aa!"
It pierces me like an arrow — and in that moment, my heart feels like it shatters.
I lie on the cold, dusty ground, gripped by a paralyzing cocktail of anger, fear, and helplessness. I tremble with rage and pain. These monsters have ripped away my most precious thing — my Mary. They take her, leaving behind only emptiness, like a burned-out field. Inside — only a black abyss, so deep it seems it will never heal, never let go.