When I come in, I see Grandpa — he is buried under the hood, his arms up to the elbows in metal and grease. Vi is already fixing yet another car he has bought for a song at an auction. He looks focused, even inspired — his lips pressed into a thin line, brows furrowed, that very spark of passion on his face that only appears when he works with engines. Vi loves this work with all his heart — dismantling, searching, figuring out why yet another metal beast has suddenly gone silent.
Since his business starts to grow with my help — thanks to the website and steady sales — he even allows himself to hire two assistants. Before that, he has help only from old friends, and even then rarely; mostly he manages alone, stubbornly and silently. The business is small, but it seems that for the first time in a long while, he feels like he is living the way he wants. And in that lies true joy.
I step closer and tap on the hood to get his attention.
"Oh, Max!" Vi straightens up, wiping his hands on a dirty rag. "I was just missing you here. Thought I'd keep myself busy with some work while you were gone."
He smiles, but something flickers in his eyes — maybe surprise, maybe unease.
"Give me a couple of minutes, I'll wash my hands, and then we'll talk," he says and goes inside the workshop, leaving behind the smell of oil and iron.
I stay alone, slowly running my gaze over the familiar space. The metallic screech, the smell of dust and oil, the dim light falling through the dirty windows — all of it only heightens the tension inside me. My heart beats faster, as if warning me: the conversation will be hard. Very hard.
"I'm here. What did you want to talk about?" he returns and, just like in the old days, we sit side by side on the trunk of the old Chevy. We often used to do this when I helped him in the garage. But today everything is different.
"Today you'll tell me the whole truth. We won't wait until my graduation," I say firmly, looking straight into his eyes. Not a hint of doubt. Not a shadow of compromise. I am too close to the edge to postpone anything anymore.
Vi tenses sharply. His body seems to shrink instinctively, like an animal cornered. His gaze grows wary, lips pressed into a thin pale line. He turns away, as if trying to hide from the words hanging in the air, heavy and cold like lead chains. As if trying to delay the inevitable. But there is no more time.
"Max, wait. That wasn't the deal…" he begins, slowly, cautiously picking his words, as if each one is a mine that can blow up everything between us.
But I cut him off, not giving him the slightest chance to dodge the subject:
"Katrin took money from my mom. To leave me."
Those words ring out like a gunshot. Right to the heart. They shatter the air, cut through the silence, and the room falls mute, like in a vacuum. Everything freezes.
Vi freezes too. No movement, no breath. Only emptiness between us — ringing like before a storm.
"Where did you learn that?" he finally forces out. His voice is hoarse, as though he hasn't expected either my words or that the truth would surface so suddenly. Nor that I would uncover it myself. Without his help.
"It's true, isn't it?" I ask, holding back a tremor. My fists clench hard on my knees. My knuckles whiten. My whole body is taut, like a string about to snap. I need no questions. No explanations. I crave only one thing — an honest answer.
He is silent. For a long time. And each passing moment of that pause strikes me like hammer blows. And at last…
"Yes…" he whispers.
Barely audible, but I hear it. Because I have been waiting, because I have known. Because I have hoped until the last second that he would say no. That it is a mistake. That Mom lied. That it is all a misunderstanding. But he says yes.
"Who did you hear it from?" he asks, quieter now, almost resigned. There is no attempt to justify himself in his voice. Only fear. Fear of what I will say next.
"From Mom," I exhale. The words come with difficulty, as if I have to tear them out of my very core. "She slipped up by accident. I pressed — and found out everything."
And with those words, something inside me breaks. Irrevocably.
Vi curses under his breath, leaning back. He looks irritated, more at himself than at me. Maybe at time. Maybe at how things have gone so wrong.
"Damn it…"
"How long have you known about this, Vi?" a wave is already rising inside me — anxious, dull, like before a storm.
"Katrinka told me only a few months after she left," Grandpa lowers his eyes, as if ashamed of the memory. "I was shocked myself by what she did."
I keep staring at him, waiting, my hands gripping the edge of the trunk.
"Were you planning to tell me after my graduation? Or… was it just a lie so I wouldn't look for her?" I ask, still clinging to a hope that maybe there is some logic behind it all… some kind of truth that will explain everything.
"Yes…" he sighs, his gaze sliding away. "Katrinka begged me not to tell you anything. But seeing your state… seeing how much you loved each other," he runs a hand down his face, as if wiping away exhaustion, "I decided I would tell you everything."
"Please… tell me now. What else don't I know?" my voice betrays me, breaking. I can't hold back anymore. The words burst out like a scream shrunk to a whisper. My chest aches, crushed by the weight my heart carries, and it beats as if it will burst out — from fear, from pain, from the unknown.
"Better let her tell you herself," he deflects again. His voice is soft, but that softness is maddening.
As if he is saying: You're not ready. As if once more he is hiding something that only I have the right to know. And it enrages me. Enrages me to trembling hands. To darkness before my eyes. To the feeling I am suffocating.
I already lean forward sharply, ready to stand, turn around and leave — slam the door without waiting for a single explanation. But he raises his hand, stopping me. Quietly, without force, with just one gesture. And despite myself, I freeze.
"Wait, just a moment," he says, lowering his gaze.
His face has changed: gone is the confidence he usually carries. Only anxiety remains. He pulls out his phone and starts looking for something in its memory. His movements are unhurried, but uncertain. His fingers tremble. Just a little — but I notice. He is trying to stay calm, but he can't. He must know what will happen next.
"I think you'll understand yourself. If not — then I'll tell you," Grandpa says quietly, without looking at me, and holds out the phone.
I take it, as if in my hands is not a smartphone but something heavy, icy, capable of turning my life upside down. Inside me a storm is already howling. Somewhere at the edge of my consciousness I realize: everything is about to change.
Forever.
The video loads on the screen. My heart freezes, my breathing grows uneven. It's the same video he sent me this morning… but then it cut off abruptly, not letting me grasp its meaning.
Katrin. She films herself, her voice so familiar, gentle, and warm, as if not a single day has passed.
"Hi, Grandpa Vi. We haven't seen each other for so long. Come visit us, we all miss you…" she says, looking straight into the camera, smiling with that same genuine, warm smile of hers.
But where my version of the video ended, this one goes on.
"Mary. Mary, come here. Say hello to Grandpa Vi," she calls softly.
A little girl runs up to her — so tiny, no more than three years old. Her eyes are the same color as mine. Those very eyes — expressive, slightly mocking, as if she already knows this world and plays easily by its rules. And her hair is just like Katrin's — those soft waves, dark with a faint copper glow in the light, like flames caught in strands. The hair I keep falling in love with again and again each time I touch it.
The girl beams with a wide, cheerful smile, showing not the slightest trace of restraint, as if her entire world is right here, before the camera, in the lens, in us. She flaps her little arms like a bird spreading its wings for the first time and waves at the camera with such sincerity that my throat tightens. Something clicks inside me, like a long-forgotten door creaking open to let in the light. My throat burns, my eyes sting with treacherous tears.
"Hi, Grandpa," she says a little uncertainly, with a funny childlike intonation. She looks about three. No more.
Katrin wraps one arm around her, pulls her close, and kisses her plump cheek. Her eyes shine — not only with love, but with that maternal light I have never seen in her before.
"All right, go play," she lets the little one go, who runs off laughing, her laughter ringing like bells.
Katrin looks back at the camera.
"We're doing well. Mary has almost recovered from her cold. You know her — restless, just like me. Even though I scolded her, she still ran through puddles — that's the result. She caught a cold. The doctor says it's nothing serious, so don't worry."
I listen, and my brain… it simply refuses to process reality. As if the sound passes through me but doesn't linger, doesn't settle, doesn't form into meaning. My thoughts tangle, thrashing inside my skull like trapped birds. My heart breaks — not cracking, not tightening — but breaking, with a snap, with pain, crushed by the weight of questions with no answers. Mary. A girl. My eyes. A cold. The doctor. Puddles. Katrin. My Katrin… a mother?
These words flash before my eyes like lightning tearing the night. I grab onto each of them, as if trying to drag myself out of this abyss, but they only sink deeper into the whirlpool. My mind desperately searches for a logical explanation, while my heart… my heart already knows. It sounds the alarm, but at the same time fills with something new — frightening, unbearably real. And I look at her face, unable to look away. Because I understand — the world will never be the same.
"That's how things are with us. Say hello to Vera. Don't forget to take care of my Max. All right, I'm being called. I'm off. Bye. Love you," she finishes, exactly as she did in the morning video.
But now everything sounds different. Deeper. Sharper. As if the whole meaning reveals itself now.
I automatically start the video again. I still can't believe it — can't connect what I see with the reality I live in up until this second. Stupor. Fear. Hope. All of it rages inside me like a storm in a closed room, breaking down doors and destroying old walls. I sit there, jaw clenched, as if that could keep me from screaming.
Vi silently leans over and presses stop. The image freezes on the moment where Katrin — my Katrin — kisses the little girl. Her movements are tender, full of love, like a mother kissing a part of herself. My heart clenches.
"That's her daughter," he tells me quietly but firmly, as if answering my silent, soul-crushing question.
I stare at him in utter incomprehension. A daughter? Rebel Girl has a daughter? These words won't fit in my head, like heavy thoughts coiling into a knot, only making it worse. As if ice has been thrown into me, and it immediately begins to melt inside, spreading cold through my chest, turning my heart into a frozen block. I try to understand, but can't. This new reality — too alien, too far removed from the world I once know.
I keep staring at the screen, at her warm smile, so alive, so real. I watch her kiss the little girl — tenderly, with love… and suddenly everything turns upside down. Everything I have ever known about her, about us, about the future — all of it vanishes, like a gray misty line on the horizon. As if all this time I stood frozen in place like a statue, while the train of her life long ago departs — into a new reality, without me. And I… I am left on the platform with memories and hopes that now seem ridiculous and pathetic.
"Maybe mother was right," I think bitterly, staring at the screen, at their little scene of happiness. "Only I can't let go. Only I keep living in an illusion. In a world that no longer exists."
"Her name is Mary," Vi goes on, his voice sounding like echoes of someone else's words, "she'll be three soon. Katrin gave birth to her on June thirtieth."
He speaks calmly, as if it is an ordinary thing, but there is sympathy in his voice. And I… I can't move. I just keep staring at the frozen frame of Katrin kissing the little girl — so small, so familiar, and at the same time so far from me.
I can't believe it. Three years, and I haven't even known. And maybe I never would have. All that is left is the cold emptiness filling me from within.
"Max, are you listening to me?" he asks worriedly, noticing how I lower my head and clench my fists.
With effort, I raise my eyes.
"Yes, go on. Tell me how wonderful her life is without me. All that's missing is to show me a photo of her new man — to finish me off!" My voice breaks, choked with hurt. I jump to my feet, no longer able to sit still and listen.