We sit at the table and eat. I am so hungry that, honestly, I eat like a real uncultured pig. I grab the food greedily, barely chewing, as if someone could snatch my plate away at any second. The hot food burns my lips, but I don't care — my stomach is contracted to the limit, and every spoonful feels like salvation. I even start to feel ashamed of my behavior, but hunger overshadows everything: manners, shame, rules. For a moment, I just allow myself to be weak, tired, and alive — without a mask, without pretense.
"Elena Dmitrievna, sorry for my piggishness at the table," I say after finishing, wiping my mouth of traces of food.
"It's nothing. You haven't eaten for a long time, so your hunger is understandable," she replies with a kind smile.
"I haven't been able to eat properly lately, and I don't even know why. If my grandmother saw my behavior today, I would be very ashamed," I remember how she taught me table manners.
"By the way, I've never met her. Maybe someday you can arrange a meeting for me?" asks Maxim's mother.
"If Katrin doesn't mind, of course," my beloved answers first, but gives me the choice and the last word, which I appreciate. After all, it's my grandmother, and I should decide when to introduce them.
"No, I'm all for it," I say honestly, not knowing what this meeting between my grandmother and great-grandmother Mary might lead to.
"And what about your mother, Katrin?" asks my mother-in-law.
There's no judgment in her voice, only calm curiosity, as if she genuinely wants to get to know me better. It's pleasant that she shows interest — it gives a sense of warmth, like a thread of trust forming between us. But inside, something shuts down. I don't want to go into details, especially now, when my heart still holds old wounds and the memories are too vivid.
"If you don't want to, darling, don't answer. You're not under interrogation, so you don't have to tell my mother everything," my man reassures me, but I decide that if I want to start a new relationship with Elena Dmitrievna, I need to be honest with her.
"My father beat both me and my mother. She suffered the most. Then she ended up in the ICU from the beatings, and that's when my grandmother forced her to leave him and come live with her. After a month in that small town, she ran away with him, leaving me with my grandmother. After that, we rarely saw each other, about once a year or less. She sent us money for my studies and just to live.
When I called her to tell her I was pregnant, she…" — tears choke me at how she treated me.
"Darling, if you want, you can stop telling me if it's too hard," my beloved's mother suggests.
"No, I'll continue," I swallow the lump in my throat and go on. "When she heard it, she called me an ungrateful whore. She had hopes for me because I was one of the best in the country academically. And because I 'spread my legs,' she said I ruined my future. After that, she said many other nasty things. But in the end, she stopped sending us even the little money she had been sending."
Maxim hugs me throughout the story and strokes my body, trying to take away the pain I feel again because of my mother. His touches are careful, almost weightless, as if he's afraid of disturbing something fragile inside me. He holds me tightly but gently, as if trying to glue back together what inside me is cracking again. His hand glides along my back, my shoulders, rests on my cheek — and there is so much care in it that tears well up. He's simply there — no questions, no demands. Just there. And that's enough to keep me from completely falling apart.
"I'm so sorry, Katrin. It's good you at least have a grandmother. I can't fully replace your mother, but I'll try," my mother-in-law comforts me, something I didn't expect to hear from her.
"Thank you for your support," I reply with a smile, though it's not entirely genuine, as I still sniffle.
After that, we all go to sleep. Silence slowly envelops the house like a soft blanket, hiding the remnants of the day's tension. Since Maxim and I are both tired, we simply lie down in bed, holding each other. His arms wrap around me tightly and securely, and in that embrace is everything — protection, warmth, understanding. I press against him, burying my face in his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart. It calms me, lulls me, like a rhythm that makes it easier to breathe. We don't say a word — words are unnecessary. Just synchronized breathing, a slight tremor from fatigue, and the peace we've long lacked.
I wake up alone, but this time in a wonderful mood, as if yesterday never happened — as if the night's calm erased all worries, and dreams dissolved in the morning light. A gentle warmth glows in my chest, soft joy spreading through my body like the first rays of sun on a clear morning, filling every cell with hope and lightness. The world seems brighter, life's colors more vivid, and the air fresh and full of promises of new beginnings, with a melody of tenderness and kindness touching the soul.
After taking a shower, I return to the bedroom, where my beloved is already waiting. His presence fills the room with coziness and calm; his gaze — warm and steady — brings joy.
"You didn't wait for breakfast in bed," my Rebel says, pointing at the tray of food on the bed. His voice is light, playful, full of care, as if he wants to give me this moment of happiness and peace, a gentle gift filled with love and attention. Each word feels like a touch, evoking a smile and a flutter in the soul.
He approaches and hugs me around the waist, pressing close. The warm heat of his body merges with mine, and in this closeness I feel safe, loved, and needed — as if the whole world has stopped, and only the two of us remain, connected by invisible threads of tenderness and understanding.
"Good morning!" he whispers in my ear, kissing me. His lips are gentle; every touch silently says, "I'm here, and everything will be fine." His whisper carries confidence and tenderness, as if he wants to protect me from any misfortune, putting all the depth of his feelings into this simple "good morning."
"Good morning, Maxim. Thank you for breakfast. I'll enjoy it," I reply, smiling, my voice full of gratitude and warmth, as if I could share with him all the light I carry in my heart.
I climb onto the bed and start eating with pleasure. Hunger awakens again, and I begin eating with even more enthusiasm than yesterday. Every bite tastes better than the last, and the simple joy of eating fills me with a sense of fullness and comfort, as if small pleasures are weaving a soft cocoon of calm around me. It's good that my beloved brought me napkins; otherwise, I'd have to shower again — and this little act of care touches me deeply, stirring warmth, gratitude, and tenderness in my chest.
"Darling, I'll leave in a couple of hours. I'll only come back late in the evening, and then I'll take you home," he tells me, his voice carrying a slight sadness at the impending separation, but also a promise of a quick reunion. There's tenderness and care in his words, as if he's trying to comfort me while preparing me for his absence.
"Alright, I don't mind. Do you still have unfinished business with Vi?" I ask without stopping eating, trying to hide the slight unease that sneaks into my heart like a quiet chill of doubt. But I make an effort not to show it, because deep down, calm and trust still reign.
"No, it's for another reason. But I promise you'll know everything tonight. Until then, I ask you not to ask," he requests.
There's a serious, warm insistence in his words, and I feel that something important is hidden behind them, though not yet meant to be revealed. A thin, cautious anxiety rings inside me, but it is immediately replaced by firm calm, keeping negative thoughts from taking over.
I am so happy and calm that I barely care that he's hiding something from me. There is harmony inside, and I trust him so completely that I can simply enjoy the moment — a moment of warmth, love, and quiet happiness that feels endless. This is my little island of peace and light, where there's no place for fear or doubt, only tenderness and certainty that tomorrow will bring new joys.
We spend the rest of the time together, savoring every moment until he has to leave. Every minute feels infused with a special warmth — gentle glances that convey more than words, tender touches that make the heart flutter, and quiet conversations that shield us from the world's chaos and give a sense of security. A soft, almost weightless magic of closeness hangs in the air, filling my heart with quiet joy. After seeing my man to his car and waiting until he drives away, I return to the house with slight sadness, but my heart warm, feeling both emptiness and the warmth he left inside.
There, my family — Mary, Vi, and Elena Dmitrievna — greet me; their smiles and kind eyes surround me with support and comfort, giving me the feeling that I'm not alone at home. It feels like the touch of kindred souls, warm and enveloping, making me forget all worries and fatigue. Together, we spend the rest of the day sharing conversation, laughter, and calm, and by evening the room fills with the soft light and warmth of family happiness — that quiet joy that arises simply when those you love are near.
Around ten in the evening, Maxim arrives, dressed elegantly. He wears a suit — not the one from our first meeting, but one that fits him perfectly, emphasizing every feature of his face, his silhouette, and his inner charisma. His appearance radiates confidence and attraction, making my heart beat faster. I am speechless at his beauty, frozen in awe — my man is flawless, like a picture, and his image strikes me deeply, stirring excitement and pride in my soul.
Why didn't he wear it in front of me before? This question surfaces in my mind, but my voice stays silent, because my heart fills with pride and love, feelings impossible to put into words.
His mother approaches him, and after a quiet conversation, she takes something from his hands and turns to me.
"Come with me, we're going to make you the most beautiful woman in the world," she says, a gentle smile on her lips, warmth and care shining in her eyes.
I follow her silently, still in a light daze from what I've seen, as if preparing for something magical about to happen. She takes out a gorgeous black dress from its case, shimmering with the finest sparkles, as if brought from a fairy-tale world. The fabric flows like night silk, catching starlight — every curve sparkles under the light, as if thousands of tiny diamonds are scattered on it. It's off-the-shoulder, elegantly highlighting the collarbone and neck, giving the look refined delicacy. The corset hugs the waist tightly, emphasizing my figure without constraining it — it seems to caress the body, made not only for beauty but for confidence.
The skirt is full, cascading in waves to the floor. Each fold is like a painter's stroke — light, airy, almost weightless. It sways with every movement, as if the dress breathes itself. Made for a queen, for a ball where time stops, and admiring gazes are fixed forever.
It is so beautiful — I watch it, holding my breath, feeling thrill and delight in my chest. It's not just a dress but a dream materialized in fabric and sparkle. It feels like a key to a new, magical world about to unfold before me — beckoning, inviting, promising a miracle.
"This is for me?" I ask, heart racing with anticipation, eyes wide, waiting for an answer filled with hope and excitement.
"Of course. Maxim chose it and bought it himself," his mother replies with a gentle smile, her voice full of confidence and love, warming me like a cozy blanket. "Now, don't waste time — put it on; he's waiting for you."