We get out of the car. The cold air hits us like a reminder of the tension of the moment. Katrin immediately runs ahead, as if she wants to get away from me, as if she doesn't want me to come closer, so that there are no more painful conversations. There's something sharp, distant in her movements, as if every step she takes is a cry for help turned into flight. I can feel her trying to hide behind her anger, behind this wall she builds around herself—brick by brick—so no one can hurt her again.
Rebel Girlsuddenly turns to face me, and I see the fire of anger burning in her eyes, directed at me right now.
"If you say your mother is right, the next one to get slapped will be you," the fire of anger blazes in her eyes, her words full of determination and inner struggle. This is more than just irritation; it's despair, alienation from everything that happened, and fear that I might start justifying her actions. Her voice trembles with pain, anger only masking deep disappointment. She tries to defend herself, hiding behind this flash of emotions, but I see it—she is hurting. Deeply.
"She had no right to do that. The only thing you did was tell the truth. That's what I told her after you left," I speak calmly, trying not to provoke her, not to pull her into another argument.
I just want to calm her, though I'm upset myself, completely confused. Each of my words seems to pass through a fog of misunderstanding, through the pain hanging between us like a dense wall. I understand how painful all this is, how she reacts to it, and a pang of guilt presses on my chest—for not foreseeing, for not protecting, for not preventing.
"I thought you would defend her. Usually sons stand up for their mothers," Katrin says, surprised.
It's as if the words escape her before she can approve them, a confession she didn't want to voice. She probably expected me to take her side, to defend my mother as sons are supposed to, but now I find myself in a different position. We stand there, and I feel torn by inner conflict, as if I'm a rope in a tug-of-war between two fires, both burning painfully.
"She's still my mother only because I don't want to cut off all ties with her. You know I'm not really needed by her. Just for form's sake," I say bitterly but truthfully.
I speak without anger, more with sadness at this reality I've lived with so long. My whole life I've tried to earn her love and received only scraps of attention. I don't know what else to say, how to explain, how to voice all my feelings. Inside, it's like someone is slowly squeezing my chest from within.
"I don't think so. She loves you in her own way, but her love is selfish," her words come again with understanding and some harshness. Katrin sees not only pain but her own perception in it, and it seems to me she isn't entirely wrong. These words don't hurt—they clarify what I've always felt but couldn't recognize.
"Forgive me. It was my idea. I just wanted us to be a family, and I thought she would accept our little girl as her granddaughter," I admit my mistake, my hopes that didn't come true. There is not only guilt in these words but also a naive dream that love can be summoned, proved, imposed. I hoped everything would be different, that we could create the harmony I dreamed of, but it turns out this path is harder than I imagined.
Rebel Girl stands, her arms crossed, wiping tears with one hand. She looks so vulnerable, fragile in this moment, like a porcelain figurine touched too sharply. I approach her and hug her, feeling her body shake from crying. Katrin doesn't hold back, and there is so much pain, so many unmet expectations in her sobs. I try to calm her, stroking her back as I once did when she was mine and the world was simpler. But now I feel this pain won't leave easily. This is not just hurt—it's a break.
"I won't interfere in this anymore. Only you will decide whether to see them or not," I say, trying to give her space to choose, to control, because now it's her right, her choice. I want her to feel strength, that she can choose who enters her life and who doesn't.
"Thank you for understanding," Katrin replies, stepping away and wiping the last of her tears. Her words carry relief but also the understanding that the situation is still unresolved, that there is more ahead to go through. But something important has already appeared between us—trust.
"Let's go home," I suggest.
She agrees, and we return to the car in silence, now without words, only the thoughts and feelings we both carry inside. The silence between us doesn't press—it's like temporary shelter where we can catch our breath.
When we get home, we don't bring up the topic again. A heavy silence hangs, but it no longer carries tension—only fatigue and quiet determination. I understand my mistake—I won't try to bring them together again. This experience is too painful, too destructive. If Mom doesn't want to accept Mary, then she doesn't have to. I let go of this hope, like letting go of dreams that no longer warm. I am an adult, and I can make my own decisions. A bitter but necessary inner firmness grows inside me. I have work that brings good income, and that will be enough for us to live well as three. Maybe not like a fairy tale at first, but calmly, with dignity, and hope for more.
I think maybe in the future there will be more of us—this desire comes from the depths of our passion. Knowing how we love making love, how passion still rages between us despite pain, despite the wounds we leave each other. It's like a storm in a quiet bay: destructive and saving at the same time. But all this remains plans, dreams, fragile and elusive like smoke from a dying candle, because there is still no peace between us. Not complete, not final. Only a truce. Temporary. Delicate as silk.
We finish dinner when someone rings the doorbell. The sound is sharp, unexpected. We glance at each other. It feels sudden, as if everything that happened today was a prelude, a tolling bell calling for resolution. My heart stops for a moment, tightens, as if sensing the evening isn't over, that the story isn't finished, that something else must happen. Unexpected. Perhaps important.
"I'll get it," Katrin says, standing up.
She walks to the door, step by step, as if each step is a step into the unknown. I stay at the table, listening to her steps, the faint rustle of her dress. Inside, everything tightens into a knot—anticipation. Fear. Hope. All at once.