Today my grandmother is sitting with me. She's not exactly my nanny, since we haven't told her about my problems — I don't want her to worry unnecessarily. It seems to me that protecting her soul is my duty, as if I'm hiding clouds from her so she can see only the sunny sky. I feel this responsibility as a heavy yet gentle weight on my shoulders — as if by closing my eyes to the pain, I try to shield her from the storms that are tearing me apart.
Maxim was just talking to her and asking her to take care of me while he was away, and to check on me from time to time. Grandmother nodded understandingly, her eyes radiating quiet care and warmth that was easy to trust. She seemed to accept this role without asking questions, simply because she loved me — unconditionally and without doubt, with that natural acceptance only a real family could give.
She explained his behavior by saying that he loved me and that was why he was overprotective. She said it with a slight smile, but her gaze hid a wisdom beyond words. I saw her eyes fill with compassion and understanding, as if she read between the lines of what wasn't spoken aloud. She also thought that because he hadn't been around during my first pregnancy, now he was trying to make up for it during the second. I agreed with her a little, because it sounded logical and even touching — as if behind every attempt of his hid tenderness and the fear of losing what was precious to him. This thought warmed my heart and gave me hope that, despite all difficulties, love and care could withstand any trial.
She doesn't know my beloved's true motives, but of course, he doesn't act only because of my condition. Deep down, I understand that he wants, at least this time, during my second pregnancy, to make up for what was missing when I was carrying Mary — that unspoken gap now being filled with double strength. This is not just care — it's a quiet cry of the soul, an attempt to correct past mistakes that cannot be forgotten. In these thoughts, it's painful and bright at the same time — as if I can see his heart, open and vulnerable.
There's a knock at the door. The sound is quiet, yet sharp and unexpected, and I feel a slight tension in my shoulders. It pierces through me — a small spark of anxiety that spreads through my body, making my heart beat a little faster. The air holds tension, as if the world freezes in anticipation.
"Grandma, I'll get it," I say softly, if she isn't asleep, my voice gentle but tinged with alertness.
I want to stay calm, but worry is already creeping in. I stand and walk to the door, each step echoing in my head, as if emphasizing the importance of this moment. My fingers tremble slightly when I touch the handle.
When I open the door, I see Alice smiling at me strangely — her smile is both kind and something unclear, as if she's trying to hide something important behind it. There's a mystery in it, and my heart feels a chill — a mix of distrust and anxiety that grips me from the inside. I unconsciously press my lips together, trying to understand the intentions behind this strange greeting.
"Hi," she says, and I feel insecurity and distrust rise inside me, tangled in a knot of emotions, making it hard to breathe freely. Her voice is soft, but there's a noticeable unevenness, as if she's afraid of being heard.
"Hi. I don't have time or energy to argue with you. So you can leave if that's why you're here. Maxim isn't here right now either," I say quickly, almost spitting the words, trying to hold back irritation before my blood pressure rises just from seeing her.
My voice is tense like a string, each phrase a protective barrier I build around myself, like a fortress, so the pain cannot get inside. My chest pulses with tension, ready to burst.
"I don't need him; I've already talked to him," the girl replies sadly, her voice quiet and slightly broken, as if she carries an invisible burden of pain and regret. I read fatigue and disappointment in her eyes, wounding me deeply and stirring mixed feelings — both pity and distrust.
She bends down, takes flowers and a cake from her hands, and hands them to me. I feel something stir inside — a mix of regret and unexpected softness I can't understand. This situation becomes more than a conflict — it's a tangle of complex feelings, a weave of bitterness, hope, and regret, as if we are both prisoners of a past that's hard to escape.
"Congratulations on the pregnancy," she says, lightly pushing me aside and entering the apartment without waiting for an invitation. Her voice carries not only joy but also bitterness — as if she's trying to make friends with this news, but something inside her tightens from pain she cannot express in words.
"Although you could have told me before falling into…" she talks loudly, and I immediately sense a tense moment approaching. The air holds tension like thunder before a storm, and I clench my fists, trying to keep my emotions under control.
Hearing what she intends to say next, I quickly cover her mouth with my free hand, not letting her finish. It's abrupt, but I cannot do otherwise — fear, irritation, and a protective reaction mix in one impulse. My world feels on the edge, and I try to protect what fragile remains. Shock flashes in Alice's eyes, but also the realization that boundaries are crossed.
"My grandmother is here, and she knows nothing. If you tell her, you'll leave here without your beautiful hair, understand?" I threaten her, keeping my hand over her mouth.
My voice is cold and firm, like a stone wall that won't give way. I feel tension building inside, needing to be released like a storm that won't let me rest.
The girl nods, and I release her, feeling tension and fatigue from the whole situation. My heart races, and my thoughts swirl in a restless whirlwind, as if the storm has calmed but anxiety remains.
"Why do you come?" I ask Alice openly, looking straight into her eyes, trying to understand her real intentions. It's important to see the honesty behind her words, to hear what she cannot say aloud.
"I want to apologize… you know because of me…" she starts quietly, "I thought we could have tea and cake and forget the past," she suggests hopefully, as if it's her small attempt to restore lost trust and peace. Her words carry vulnerability, a desire to rebuild bridges that seem broken, and I involuntarily wonder — maybe there's still room for understanding and forgiveness in both of us.
"Well, since you come with a white flag and sweet gifts…" I squint, holding back a crooked smile. My lips twitch in a half-ironic gesture, as if I'm still trying to figure out whether it's a joke or a test of endurance. "Alright then, I'll accept them. Come into the living room, I'll put the kettle on."
Alice nods with a cautious smile. She holds herself modestly, almost invisible, as if she still can't believe she's really allowed in. Shoulders tense, hands slightly clenched — but her eyes… something flickers there. Maybe hope? Or just fatigue?
I turn my back to her and head to the kitchen. My hands move automatically: I take out the kettle, open the tap. The metal rings loudly against the edge of the sink. Thoughts swirl like water in a whirlpool: slightly tense, slightly confused. An uncomfortable cocktail of old grievances and new doubts.
From deep in the house, I suddenly hear my grandmother's soft voice. It seems to dissolve in the walls, warm and sleepy. I head to the room where she is. Grandmother is half-lying on the bed, covered with a checkered blanket. Her face is calm, wrinkles on her forehead slightly smoothed, and beside her, like a fluffy little angel, Mary sleeps. Her hair spreads across the pillow, her cheeks slightly pink. She breathes so evenly and deeply that, for a moment, the whole world feels right.
"Has Maxim come back? Seems early…" murmurs grandmother, barely opening her eyes. Her voice is warm, almost fragile, as if woven from a dream.
I smile, step closer, and carefully adjust the blanket on her.
"Sleep, grandma. My friend came with a cake. We'll have tea together. I'll save you a piece of cake, I promise."
The word "friend" hangs in the air, slightly unnatural, like someone else's clothing. It sounds unfamiliar, almost false, as if my tongue refuses to call her that for real. Calling Alice a friend — for now — is hard. But I cannot explain to grandma what really happened in my past and who this girl is.
"Alright, Katrin… go ahead, talk…" she whispers, closing her eyes again. "I'll sleep a little more…"
When I return to the kitchen, the kettle is already steaming — hissing, bubbling, as if eager to remind me it's there. Steam rises, drawing transparent patterns on the glass, like someone is painting with a brush on a canvas. I gather the cups, carefully arrange the spoons, place the kettle on the tray. The cake smells of vanilla, warm pastry, and some forgotten Sunday morning. As if childhood is knocking at the door.
Alice sits in the living room. Calm, almost submissive. She carefully sets her bag aside and looks out the window, as if searching for answers I cannot give her. Light slides across her face — soft, yet relentless, revealing fatigue in her features.
"Isn't it hard for you? I can help if you want, just say so," she suddenly says. Her voice is unexpectedly soft, and there's something that confuses me. Not arrogance. Not tense politeness. But… care?
I shiver inside. It's strange. And a little troubling. As if a new chord suddenly appears in a familiar melody — unfamiliar, but beautiful.
I nod silently. Not because I need help, but because I don't know how else to react. I'm still trying to understand: what is sincere, and what is just a temporary mask hastily worn over guilt.
"I can't get too nervous but not move around. You're my guest, so I'll manage myself," I tell her, trying to sound calm, although inside I'm still trembling from tension and fatigue.
My words are quiet, almost inaudible, but they carry firm resolve not to succumb to circumstances. My heart pounds in my chest, as if trying to break free, but I restrain it, afraid that if I allow myself even a second of relaxation — everything will collapse.