Talking with Maxim calms me like a warm sea, lulling me with its rhythmic noise. He becomes for me a soft, gentle wave that quietly rolls onto the shore of my tired soul, washing away the remnants of anxiety and doubt. Inside, there is finally silence, so deep and long-awaited, as if someone has turned off the endless hum in my head. Worries quiet down, dissipating like fog at dawn, and I clearly understand what I want next—without fuss, without restlessness, as if the voice of my heart finally sounds loud and clear.
I realize that an "ideal" girl or woman doesn't exist, just as there is no perfect sky without clouds—but that doesn't prevent it from being beautiful. Sometimes it's the clouds that give the sky depth, make it alive. And yet, I very much want to become such a person—special, bright, significant—for him, for the one I love. Or at least, to try. Not out of duty, not out of fear of losing him, not to please him, but out of the love that grows inside me stronger with every passing minute.
Maxim deserves the best in his life. I have no doubt about that. He is a person with a tender soul, kindness that doesn't need words, and a rare ability to accept—without reproach, without demands. And even though I cannot rewrite the past, change what is done or unsaid—I can build something else: a present and a future. One where we are both happy. Where I am myself, but the best version of myself, alive and loving. This is the decision I make—consciously, calmly, with an inner warmth, as if a soft flame of confidence has finally ignited inside me.
I don't want to pretend, to make myself someone else. That would be a lie, disrespectful to both myself and him. But I can change—not radically, not breaking myself, but little by little. In my behavior, in my reactions, in my tone—in the small details that form the whole. I want to be gentler, more attentive, softer with him—the way I once was, before all the shocks, before the pain, before those long months when life seemed like an endless gray ribbon. I want to learn to enjoy simple things again—the sunlight on the wall, the smell of tea, his hand on my back. I want to let go of fears and anxieties, to relax… and finally, once and for all, release the past, not return to it in my mind every time, like a painful tooth—with pity, irritation, or helplessness.
I get dressed, and feeling a light excitement, almost a thrill, I approach Maxim. He sits on the bed, waiting for me, and in his eyes is warm, patient tenderness—as if he feels everything happening inside me and just stays there, near me. He spreads his legs, as if inviting me to come closer, to be near. I stand between them, like in the center of his world, place my hand on his head, and start stroking his hair—soft, slightly tousled, so familiar. This gesture is simple, yet it carries everything: gratitude, warmth, love that needs no words. He lifts my sweater and lightly, almost playfully, kisses my stomach—so tenderly, as if kissing not just the skin but my essence, my vulnerability, my life. This touch makes something very kind and homely tighten inside me. As if the world momentarily becomes smaller, cozier, warmer. As if I've returned to the place where I've always belonged.
"Your tummy wants to eat," he says with a soft, slightly mischievous smile, as if deliberately trying to ease the wave of my emotions. "So let's go. By the way, Vi is staying here for the night too."
Hearing this, I unexpectedly rejoice, like a child hearing about a beloved relative. Everything inside me sparks with joy, bright, sincere, without any "buts." My close friend—right here, under this roof too.
"Let's go, I want to see him," I say with genuine enthusiasm, pulling my beloved by the hand. He rises easily, letting me lead us forward. We walk quickly down the corridor—I feel as if I'm flying, not noticing the steps, anticipating the meeting. My heart beats faster, not from anxiety, but from happiness.
From our noise, Elena Dmitrievna and Grandpa Vi come out of the room. And when I see him—familiar, dear, with a calm, slightly tired smile—I can't hold back. With all my force, with joy in my chest, with a surge impossible to stop, I rush into him. He almost loses his balance but steadies himself—a miracle, with his resilience, with his special, warm energy.
"Vi, I'm so glad to see you!" I exclaim so loudly that the neighbors surely hear me. My voice rings with overflowing emotion.
"I'm glad to see you too, Katrinka. But that's no reason to knock me off my feet," the man replies with irony, hugging me lightly, cautiously, as if holding something very fragile.
"Sorry, it's just my emotions," I whisper, letting him go, stepping back toward Maxim, who has been quietly watching me the whole time. I feel him looking—not judging, not evaluating, but with a warm smile, full of love. This is how one looks at someone familiar, a little crazy, yet truly their own.
At this moment, I am not perfect. I am loud, impulsive, emotional. But I am real. And that is the most important thing.
"How are you?" Vi asks me softly, his voice tinged with concern, as if afraid to scare the fragile peace that has barely returned to my soul. He looks at me with hidden anxiety, eyes reflecting care, pain, and a weak, timid hope that I am truly okay.
"Better now," I say, and in these two simple words, there is more than just an answer. There is gratitude—deep, warm, almost pulsing in my chest. Relief—like the first breath after a long dive in darkness. And a tiny sprout of hope pushing through the ashes of a scorched heart—timid, trembling, but alive.
After these words, I approach Maxim's mother. My heart beats a little faster, as if sensing the importance of what is about to happen. There is an inner thrill in my chest—not fear, but a trembling from responsibility, from the desire not to hurt, not to make mistakes. I look her in the eyes, trying not to turn away, not to hide, not to protect myself as I often did.
"Forgive me for today. I was not myself…" I speak sincerely, gently. "Thank you for looking after Mary while I was gone." I take her hand lightly, almost uncertainly, just to be closer, to establish that human, warm connection. There is no accusation or resentment in my touch—only gratitude and remorse, showing through the delicate, fragile shell of dignity.
The woman freezes for a second. She clearly did not expect such a turn. Her face stops, as if time itself has paused. Her gaze becomes cautious, almost studying—as if she is looking at me anew, as if before her stands not someone familiar, but a new version of a person with whom she has yet to form a relationship.
"Was it because of me that you acted like that?" she asks, not understanding my behavior. In her voice there is no accusation, only confusion, sincere and deep. As if she is trying to piece together a puzzle in her head, someone else's puzzle, that she has been trying to assemble in her own way for so long.
"No, it's because three and a half years ago I left your son, which I still regret," I answer honestly. It is hard—to speak out loud what has tormented me for years, kept me awake at night, like a stone on my soul. "What happens today is not your fault," I add softly, trying to calm her, to lift a burden she starts to take on herself, even though it doesn't belong to her.
"But it is my fault that I offered money for you to break up with Maxim," Elena Dmitrievna replies. Without pretension, without defense. Simply—as a fact, and in that confession there is more courage than in thousands of excuses.
I nod, keeping my gaze fixed. Inside me, a whole hurricane rages, but on the outside—only calm.
"To be honest, I was going to do it myself. But your money made my future easier," I recount a life long lived, something almost чуждое already, but still leaving a trace. "I spent it on childbirth and taking care of the baby after she was born. I don't know if Maxim told you, but I also sold my apartment. And with that money, my daughter and I lived comfortably the first two years after I left," I don't say this with reproach. I simply share my truth—bare, exhausted, but not blaming. And in that openness, there is freedom.
"No, he didn't tell me. And I didn't ask how she came into his life afterwards…" she says after a pause, her voice lowering, almost a whisper. "But it doesn't matter, it doesn't change my actions either," she stubbornly adds, as if she wants to carry responsibility fully, without shifting it or hiding.
In that stubbornness, in that determination, I suddenly recognize myself. And it is a strange, almost frightening feeling—to see my own reflection in someone I previously considered a stranger.
I step closer to her, almost into her personal space, but with kindness. Carefully, but confidently, I hug her. And to my surprise—she hugs me back. Her body tenses at first, as if she doesn't expect warmth, doesn't believe in it, but then relaxes, gives in, responds.
"Shall we forget the past?" I whisper into her ear, so that no one hears, especially the men, who, as always, would never fully understand. "We both love Maxim, so let's not argue for his sake," I offer her not a surrender, but a truce—honest, alive, human. Without illusions, but with hope.
"No," she replies. And my heart clenches for a moment—how painfully this simple word can sound sometimes. It cuts like a sharp blade, reminding me of the past. But she continues:
"I want to forget the past and start a new relationship, but not because of Maxim. I realize I was wrong about you."
At those words, I feel something inside me melt. The ice I didn't even know I carry begins slowly but surely turning into water. Streams flow inside, deep somewhere, washing away old grievances, pain, and loneliness.
"Agree," I whisper, feeling something being born anew between us—not trust, perhaps not yet… but a chance. We hug even tighter, and in that embrace there is something incredibly important—acceptance, forgiveness, and possibly the beginning of something truly new. Like dawn after a long, agonizing night.
"Ladies, are we having dinner today or not?" Vi asks us, clearly hungry.
"Okay, let's go, Katrin, let's eat," my mother-in-law suggests.
From today, she has become that to me.