In an hour and a half, we arrive at my grandmother's. Since we don't want to let each other go for so long, we linger—taking our time, enjoying every moment together, as if trying to memorize everything down to the smallest detail: the smell of the air, the warm light of the setting sun, the soft rustle of the leaves.
"So, have you decided about the girls' departure day?" my grandmother asks, looking at us with a kind but slightly anxious smile. There's care in her eyes, and a desire to maintain peace in our family.
"Well, we weren't really thinking about it before. But we can do it now," I admit honestly, feeling the weight of the decision ahead. This moment feels important and at the same time complicated, as every step could affect all of us. "Katrin, the decision is yours. I'll accept whatever you choose," I tell my Rebel Girl, not wanting to pressure her. Even if she wants to stay, I won't oppose it. Her happiness and peace of mind matter most to me.
"Sorry, Grandma. But I'm going with Max right away. I don't want to be separated from him," she says, her voice full of firm determination. In her words, there's deep attachment and genuine love that she cannot and does not want to hide.
"Alright, granddaughter. I don't mind. I understand—love is like that," her grandmother agrees with a smile full of warmth and understanding.
"I promise on my part that we'll visit you often. And these words aren't just to comfort you. I'm sure we'll come to see you several times a month," I say sincerely, looking my grandmother in the eyes, putting all my hope and responsibility into my words. This promise feels sacred to me—caring for family always comes first.
"No, it's nothing. The main thing is that you're happy," she replies, not immediately believing, but in her eyes, there's already a faith that may grow over time. I understand she won't believe until she sees it for herself, but this is a start.
Katrin loves her grandmother, just like Mary does. So I really plan to visit her often, because forty kilometers isn't that far. This distance seems insignificant compared to what binds us with all our hearts and souls.
In the evening, we get in the car and head home. Outside, streetlights flicker slowly, their soft glow running over the dark asphalt like quiet candles, filling the view with a light, almost magical atmosphere. Inside the car, there's cozy silence—not just the absence of sound, but a real space of calm, filled with the soft light of the dashboard gently illuminating our faces and the muted warmth of our hands touching on our laps. It feels like an unspoken promise of support and closeness, as if all our connection and understanding are contained in this simple touch.
Entering the apartment, I take a deep breath of the familiar home air—this scent is like returning to a quiet harbor, a place where all worries fade away. Without holding back, I hug Katrin—she's near, my most reliable support in this world, the one whose closeness can shield me from any storms and uncertainties of life.
"I'm so happy. Thank you for this," I whisper in her ear, my voice trembling with gratitude and tenderness overflowing within me. There's so much sincerity in these words that it feels like they fill the space between us with a special light, like a quiet flame warming our hearts and making this moment priceless.
"My love, I'm also very happy," she says, hugging me back, her voice soft and warming, her eyes reflecting the same deep joy I feel. In that gaze is everything—tenderness, understanding, love, as if an invisible thread connects our souls.
"Mommy, Daddy," our little star tugs at my pants, and her bright little voice instantly melts all the remaining fatigue in my body, bringing with it the light and carefree joy of childhood. I kneel and pick her up, feeling her light body completely trusting me—this trust is the most precious gift.
"What does our Mary want?" I ask, kissing her cheek, feeling her soft skin on my lips, filled with childlike innocence and sincerity that never fails to touch me.
"To eat," she replies, smiling so simply and sincerely that my heart overflows with boundless love, like the sun illuminating everything around.
"Great idea, right, Mommy?" I ask Katrin, looking at her warmly, with an expectation that carries all our care and desire to create comfort for our family.
"Sweetie, go play for now. I'll cook and call you," she says gently, and Mary nods in agreement, with that innocent serious expression only children can pull off—as if she already understands that the magic of simple home moments is about to begin.
I let go of our daughter, and she runs to the table where her drawings are spread out—bright, lively spots of color that seem like little stories painted with the light of a child's imagination filled with dreams.
"Do you want help?" I ask my Rebel Girl, seeing her checking the kitchen with a slight frown. Worry flashes in her eyes, as if she wants everything to turn out perfectly but doubts quietly build inside.
"Go to the store; we don't have much food left. Only some vegetables are left from before I left," she replies while checking the cupboards, and I feel a slight anxiety in her voice, as if she fears we won't manage, that it won't be enough for our little family.
I go up to her and kiss her temple—a small gesture that's a promise of support and love, a quiet reminder that we're together and capable of handling everything.
"Write a list, and I'll buy everything we need," I say, feeling responsible and wanting to do everything for our family so that peace and abundance always reign in our home.
After buying everything on the list, I return home, and together we cook—it's simple and warm, as always when we're together, each moment filled with care and love. Then we go to sleep. Mary whines and wants to sleep with us in the same bed. I don't mind—despite the huge desire Katrin and I have to be alone after being apart, I also want to spend time with our little one. Our daughter is important to me too, and for time spent with her, I can put aside my sexual desires with Rebel Girl—right now, it's more important just to be close, to be a family.
These are moments of a real family, full of warmth and coziness, when everything else stops mattering. I lie behind Katrin, holding her on one side, and Mary hugs her on the other. And so we fall asleep together—three hearts beating in unison, every inch of our bodies feeling closeness and safety.
Waking up in the morning, I see that my beloved is still asleep, and our daughter isn't in the room. I get up quietly and find her in the living room—she's playing with her toys on the couch, immersed in her little world, where everything is as simple and bright as a morning sunbeam.
"Good morning, my little star," I say, approaching her, my voice full of tenderness and joy at having her nearby, at being able to start the day with this light and warmth.
"Daddy!" she cries and climbs into my arms, and I feel how she fills me with happiness through her childlike trust, like a ray of joy that illuminates even the darkest days.
"What are you doing, Mary?" I ask, smiling, and in that smile is everything—love, care, the desire to be close.
"Drawing," she answers, showing me her work—multicolored lines and spots that are little miracles to her, a reflection of her world full of imagination and light.
I remember how her mom used to draw on me—I still remember the little cat she made out of me. It was so funny and warm that a smile spreads across my face on its own, filling my heart with the warmth of memory.
"My little one, do you want to do a little mischief with me?" I ask conspiratorially, smiling as if revealing the secret of a big adventure, inviting her into a game where every moment is a celebration.
"What kind?" she asks immediately, her eyes sparkling with curiosity and anticipation, like a real little explorer ready to discover something new and magical.
"We'll do some drawing, but on Mommy this time. I'll get the right markers so they wash off later. You'll watch quietly, and I'll do the drawing. Deal?" I ask Mary, feeling how a special moment of joy and play is forming in this proposal, a memory we'll keep forever.
"Yes!" she shouts joyfully, her voice full of childlike sincerity and excitement for the fun ahead, for the way an ordinary day is turning into a fairy tale.
Finding a marker and carefully testing it on my hand—just to make sure everything washes off easily—we quietly head to the bedroom. Our steps are cautious and almost silent—it feels like every movement is filled with trembling excitement and a desire to preserve this magical moment, not to break the gentle morning magic enveloping the room. The air carries a light thrill mixed with childlike anticipation, making our hearts beat a little faster.