We arrive at my mother's at lunchtime. The anxiety I feel doesn't leave me. I call her again, reminding her to behave well, especially with them, my girls. Under pressure, she finally agrees at least not to argue in front of her granddaughter. But I am still uneasy. I want to talk about it with Katrin, but she immediately says she will ignore my mother. That answer satisfies me, though I still feel tension lingering between them, and perhaps this isn't the best outcome.
We get out of the car. My girls are dressed nicely, and I can't help but notice how they look together. Rebel Girl wears a soft pink dress, just like Mary. The colors match, but the styles are different, and the fabric is different too. The little one's dress has various flowers, which makes her even more charming. Both of them look magnificent, and I feel proud looking at them. They inspire admiration, and my heart fills with warmth.
At the door, my mother greets us. She stands straight, almost like a statue, with a rigid back and tense shoulders, as if this isn't a simple meeting but a battle she has meticulously prepared for. There is something cold and sharp in her gaze, like a draft piercing to the bone. I see her internally preparing to ruin our meeting — as if she is ready with cutting words and hurtful looks. Still, I hope I can prevent it, that the atmosphere will change as soon as we step over the threshold.
"Good afternoon," Katrin greets my mother, and I feel her voice a little tense, slightly higher than usual, with a note of polite caution. It sounds nice, but strained. So far, everything goes smoothly, and I am genuinely glad. Some balance, at least. Yet it is only the beginning, and I know a trial awaits us both.
"Good," my mother replies slightly harshly, barely twitching the corner of her mouth, not in a smile but more like a smirk. She doesn't even look at Katrin properly, just glances as if assessing.
I look at her disapprovingly — briefly but expressively, hoping my mother will understand. I hope this silent reproach makes her reconsider a little. But she ignores the look, as if she doesn't notice at all. Or pretends not to. I don't like it — it pinches inside, my heart tightens, but I try not to show my disappointment. I have to keep my face, stay calm for Katrin and Mary.
"Mary, say hello," our daughter's favorite softly requests, as if trying to bring a bit of light into this tense atmosphere.
The little girl, smiling naively and sincerely, waves and says:
"Hi."
I notice my mother demonstratively rolling her eyes, openly showing her attitude, hands on her hips — rigidly, like a person used to controlling everything and everyone. She clearly doesn't enjoy it. Her face reads annoyance, as if this simple child's gesture is a burden, as if the very idea of warmth seems excessive to her.
"Come in," my mother finally invites us. Her voice sounds sharp, almost mechanical, with no hint of hospitality. We silently nod and enter the house, stepping over the threshold not just physically, but as if crossing an invisible boundary, behind which the real test begins — for patience, love, and the boundaries we have all long been trying to rediscover.
She leads us to the living room, where the table is set. The air carries a light aroma of food, mixed with hints of perfume she clearly puts on for our arrival. The table looks quite nice — a neat tablecloth, candles, even if unlit, and carefully arranged utensils give the whole scene a sense of cozy ceremony. Although the food is obviously ordered from a restaurant — it is evident from the flawless presentation and packaging peeking from under the table — it is still clear she tries. My mother doesn't really like cooking; I know that long ago. But at least she prepares a little — and surprisingly, it calms me somewhat. I am glad she makes some effort, that she doesn't ignore the evening entirely. I understand that for her, this is a big step — to gather herself, organize something, and invite us into her home, even if not wholeheartedly.
Sliding the chair back for Katrin, she sits down. I notice that Mom is standing, waiting, a little stiff, as if holding her breath. A shadow of disappointment flashes in her eyes, and her face shows hurt—subtle, restrained, but I know her too well not to notice. She clearly hopes that I will do something similar, that the first gesture of my attention will be for her, not Katrin. Perhaps it's a kind of silent test, a check. And when it fails, she withdraws. But these are small things, not worth a scandal. At least, for me.
Mary, meanwhile, as usual, climbs onto the chair herself without a trace of embarrassment, with light nonchalance. In her movements, there is the usual childish freedom, spontaneity that this room so desperately lacks. And this immediately provokes another demonstrative reaction from Mom. She rolls her eyes—slowly, with clear irritation, as if trying to say with her whole expression, "Of course, what else can one expect." Considering this behavior rude, she does not hide her disdain. A tense silence hangs in the air, thin as a taut string. Everything in this room, even the shadows on the walls, seems to absorb this tension.
"Thanks for lunch, Mom. Enjoy, everyone," I say, trying not to single anyone out. Mom, of course, cannot hide that her mood is far from perfect, but she remains silent.
"Thank you," Katrin replies quietly, ignoring Mom's gaze.
"Thank you, son, for coming to see me. You too, enjoy," Mom says, clearly implying that she is happy to see no one but me. Her words are cold, but I do not respond; I don't want to create even more tension.
We start eating in silence. Katrin continues to ignore my mom, as promised. She speaks only to Mary, asking what she wants to eat and what to put on her plate. I watch Katrin taking care of the little one, making sure she doesn't make a mess or smear anything on the table. Everything goes as usual, although I notice that both women at the table behave unnaturally. But there's no scandal, and I try not to focus on the smallest details.
Everything goes well until Mary starts eating the meat. Although Katrin cuts it for her politely, Mary decides to eat it with her hands. It's awkward, but children do what they want. Katrin wipes her mouth, making sure she doesn't get dirty or create a mess on the table. It doesn't seem terrible, but for my mom, it appears catastrophic.
"Sorry, I can't take this anymore," Mom says sharply, and at the same moment throws her fork onto the plate with a crash. The sound echoes through the room, as if splitting the air in two. She jumps up without a word and walks heavily into another room. This gesture is painful—not just irritation, but a real explosion of accumulated anger and hurt. I see her face twist with rage, her lips pressed tight, her eyes burning with an inner fire that cannot be hidden.
Katrin continues eating silently, as if nothing happened. But I watch her closely and see a barely noticeable hint of tension on her face—a slight furrow between her brows, lips pressed a little tighter. She shows no reaction, trying to remain composed, but I know—it is no easier for her than it is for me. This silence between us, stretched for hours, feels heavy and oppressive. We continue in quiet, but I feel the gap between Mom and me growing deeper with each moment, like an invisible wall through which it is already impossible to see.
"Excuse me, I'll go talk to her. You keep eating," I say quietly, feeling the internal tension and responsibility for what is happening.
Katrin, without raising her eyes or acknowledging me, nods. Her calm is almost icy—such cold silence that I cannot understand what she really feels. Something tightens inside me—a mix of worry and despair—but I try not to show it, keeping myself under control. It's hard, but I know—now it's important to show strength and patience, even if everything is falling apart.