I get a call on my phone, waking me up. The sharp sound breaks the morning silence, like a blade cutting through velvet calm. I instantly feel a wave of irritation wash over me, rising from my chest to my throat, pressing from the inside.
This is not the moment for talking — my girls are sleeping beside me, so warm, calm, so familiar. Their breathing — light, even, like the rustle of leaves on a warm evening — fills the room with peace, which the call ruthlessly destroys, as if someone rips off the thin blanket of happiness and calm from me.
I reluctantly reach for the phone, still not fully opening my eyes, and with a dull sigh, I answer, trying not to wake Katrin and Mary. I feel for the screen; my fingers glide over the cold glass, and in the same second, I leave the bedroom, softly closing the door behind me, as if protecting them from the noise and my irritation.
The remnants of sleep tangle in my head like fog, heavy and sticky. Thoughts don't form coherent chains, and the irritation in my chest still won't let go, itching under my skin, demanding release.
I step on the floor barefoot, feeling the coolness under my feet — it sobers me a little, brings me back to reality. I hope that something important is on the other end of the line — otherwise, I won't hold back. This thought pulses inside me, like a warning.
"Yeah?" I answer, not looking at the caller ID, hoping the conversation will be short. My voice is dry, tense, but underneath it hides a slight tremor — intuition tells me this call doesn't bode well.
"Hi, son. It's me, Mom…"
I sigh. Deeply. With effort. I immediately feel the irritation gaining strength, like a hot lump in my chest.
Why do I always react like this? Why does even her voice, warm and familiar, spark something in me — not anger, no — but exhaustion? She just wants to talk… And I, as always, am not ready.
"Now I recognize it. I just woke up," I squeeze out, yawning into the phone as if confirming my words. My whole body seems to sink into the heavy chains of morning fatigue, and even speaking is hard. My voice is hoarse, broken, as if someone else's.
"How are you? We haven't talked in a long time. Don't you want to come visit me?" Her voice sounds soft, almost gentle. But I catch subtle notes of longing hidden beneath the familiar mask of everydayness. It's a request, real, alive — and I feel uneasy at how easily I could ignore it.
After that conversation, I can't focus on her. We haven't communicated for a long time, and guilt, like an old wound, reminds me of itself — burning, itching under the skin, forcing me to lower my gaze. But at the same time… I simply don't know how to start a conversation. How to explain to her that my life isn't as she thinks? That I don't understand what's happening and am afraid to admit it. I'm not ready to open up to her again. Or maybe I just don't want to.
"Fine. Katrin is back, or rather, I brought her back," I say, the words slipping out unexpectedly quickly, as if escaping from inside before I can stop them. My voice is even, too even — like someone trying to hide a storm raging inside.
"What?!" she shouts into the phone. Not just a cry, but a scream. Her voice pierces the silence like thunder on a clear day. I feel a jolt run through me. My heart skips, my palms sweat, and my chest aches from premonition — I know she doesn't expect to hear this. And now I have to go through her reaction while holding back my own.
"Yes, and not alone," I add, and something inside me flinches, painfully tightening.
The words have already escaped, and I feel them hanging in the air, like an irreversible decision. I probably should have been more careful, chosen softer wording… But there's no way back. I take a step — and now I must go forward.
"I told you she's already with someone else!" Her voice suddenly turns triumphant, as if she's won a small battle she's been fighting in the shadows all these years. The victory in her tone is almost tangible.
I feel her words cutting me from the inside. That phrase — not just a reaction, it's defense, proof of her righteousness. As if she finally finds a reason to assert herself and wash away all guilt.
"No one else. She gave birth to a daughter from me," I say calmly, almost coldly.
I know I'm about to destroy her "victory." And indeed, her voice changes instantly — I hear surprise and anger mixing, like a whirlwind of emotions rolling through the other side of the line. I've seemingly pulled the ground out from under her beliefs, and it angers her. Her voice trembles, like a taut string.
"Lies! Don't believe her, it's a lie so you'll fall for her again. Who would take her with that burden? And someone like you, fool, will believe," Mom attacks again. Sharp, prickly words pour through the phone, each one hurting. My heart feels heavy. Her anger is almost frightening — there's no doubt, no empathy. Only an unbreakable wall. For her, there's no "if" — only her truth, in which I am again weak, foolish, naive.
"Mary is my daughter, and you'll accept her as your granddaughter. By the way, I'd like you to meet her," I exhale.
The idea might not be wise — even I understand that. But I need something to cling to, at least to try to build a bridge between us. I fear she'll refuse even this opportunity… and everything will collapse completely.
"You want to drag them into my house?" Her voice is full of undisguised displeasure. Dull, heavy, like a blow to the chest. More than just disagreement — there's fatigue, irritation, fear of change. I feel her annoyance growing, like a storm approaching across the sky. Her words are like a cold shower, and everything inside me burns with hope. I still believe she might change her mind.
"Mom, it's time for you to make peace already. You wanted grandchildren; here's your granddaughter. She's the most beautiful girl in the world, just like her mother," I say almost in a whisper, with some childlike hope for a miracle. As if her acceptance could heal all old wounds. These words are not just an attempt — they are a plea, hidden beneath a mask of calm. I desperately want her to hear not my words, but my heart.
"Better not," she cuts me off sharply. Her voice is like a knife on glass — cold, steady, and final. I immediately understand — no. It won't happen. All my efforts, my persuasion, my hopes — everything collapses in an instant. Something inside me snaps. Something important and vulnerable, like a fragile thread on which my faith in reconciliation hangs.
"Then don't expect me to visit either," I exhale, and immediately realize that this is manipulation. Weak, transparent, almost childlike. But there's no other way with her anymore. I know she understands it too. This is the last straw I cling to, hoping that something, even a little, might make her reconsider. Even for a moment.
"Fine, I'll expect you anytime," she finally agrees. But this is not a victory. Her voice carries a strange, heavy indifference, as if she yields not out of desire, but out of exhaustion. It's a defeat. But inside me, a faint, barely noticeable wave of relief rises. At least something worked. At least one step forward.
"We'll come today," I say, trying not to think that this might be a mistake. I don't allow myself to doubt. I just have to act.
We talk a little longer and then end the conversation. Silence falls over the line, but it brings no peace. I feel a little lighter — as if there's more air in my lungs — yet the tension doesn't let go, sitting somewhere deep inside, ready to flare up at any moment. Now I have to convince Katrin to go along with this adventure.
And that seems like an even more difficult challenge.