Running back home, I immediately grab the phone, my heart pounding so loudly it feels like it wants to burst out — this frantic rhythm fills me with panic and hopelessness. I want to call my son as soon as possible, but I didn't take the phone with me — this mistake now feels fatal, pressing on my chest with a weight I cannot shake. I lift the receiver and hear his voice:
"Yes, Mom," he answers cheerfully, and in his words there is the usual ease, as if nothing terrible is happening, as if he wants to comfort me with his calm and make this moment less heavy.
But suddenly, in the background, I hear the clear laughter of a girl:
"Katrin, I'm ticklish. Don't interrupt my call with Mom."
This laughter, so innocent and light, challenges all my anxiety, making my heart tighten even more with conflicting emotions — on one hand, joy that the girl is alive, and on the other — fear and horror that something might be wrong with her.
His voice returns to the conversation, calm and focused:
"Yes, I'm listening."
There is determination, hope, and a desire to understand what is happening, despite the weight of what I've heard.
I manage to force out the words that tear me apart from the inside:
"Mary has been kidnapped."
The words sound aloud, and in the same instant, something inside breaks. The silence that follows rings louder than any scream. I freeze, as if turned to stone, but inside, everything begins to collapse, crack, shatter, like fragile glass under pressure.
And then — for the first time all this time — I allow myself to cry. The tears rush out suddenly, uncontrollably, burning my cheeks. These are not just tears — this is the cry of my soul, a silent scream, bursting out with every drop. Bitter, salty, heavy, they flow as if washing away the burden of fear, pain, and helplessness. As if my wounded soul finally gives in and allows itself to be alive.
I shake all over, choking in sobs, clutching the fabric of my clothes as if seeking support. But there is none.
Only emptiness. And Mary — my little, bright girl — somewhere out there, alone, in the hands of monsters.
My son immediately goes into interrogation mode, his voice becoming more serious:
"This is not a joke. What do you mean kidnapped?"
I hear his anxiety and anger cutting through the silence, as he tries not to lose control and take the situation under his strict supervision.
I try to explain, holding back my sobs:
"We were at the playground. Three men came up to us. They grabbed her and kidnapped her, even though I tried to save Mary from them."
Each word comes with difficulty, filled with pain and fear, like a splinter that keeps me from breathing easily.
"Did they say anything else?" he asks, and I hear in his voice readiness to fight, the desire to take the situation into his own hands and protect the family.
"One of them knows you and Katrin. He said you owe him help or something like that…" I wipe away tears, trying not to break down again, recalling the horrible moments that cut into memory like a cold blade.
"Did he give his name?" my son asks insistently.
"Yes. He said his name is Ivan, and that he is not your friend," I answer, reliving the entire nightmare, each word like a nail in my heart.
"I'll handle this, Mom. You take a taxi and come to us as soon as possible, okay?" I hear his firm and calming voice, which becomes an anchor for me in this sea of chaos.
"Yes," I answer quietly, feeling hope rise inside, and we end the call.
I quickly order a taxi — my fingers tremble, the phone nearly slips from my hands. My heart beats like a caged bird, striking loudly against my ribs. With each second, the weight of what is happening grows, pressing on my chest like a heavy slab. Time seems distorted — stretching endlessly or shrinking into painful flashes of anxiety. No pause, no rest — only panic, despair, and bitter cold inside.
Forty minutes later, I am already standing at their doorstep. The journey passes in a fog — as if someone carries me, and I am only a shell.
Vi opens the door. I do not expect him to be here so quickly — or maybe I just lost track of time. His gaze is prickly, cold, as if piercing through me. Not a trace of warmth, not a hint of sympathy.
"They are in the living room," he says evenly, calmly, and for a moment, I feel his voice is not a human voice but a verdict.
He opens the door as if letting me into a zone of pain, where every word, every look will be another trial.
I enter. The living room greets me with a thick silence, heavy with tension. The air feels dense, like syrup — filled with hopelessness. On the sofa sit Maxim, Katrin, and Vera.
Katrin — Mary's mother — looks broken. Her face is wet with tears, her eyes red and swollen, with a desperate, empty look, as if life has already left her. She hugs herself, as if trying to hold onto reality, not to fall apart.
Maxim sits nearby but as if behind glass. He does not lift his head. His silence hits harder than any words. It is a deaf reproach, a detachment hiding guilt — or indifference? I do not know. But this silence lays on my soul like a heavy stone, cold and merciless, intensifying the inner storm.
I stand at the threshold, feeling like an outsider among my own, not knowing where to start. In my chest — scorching emptiness, in my throat — a lump, and before my eyes — only Mary's face, her frightened eyes, and hands reaching for me.
I feel a gaze full of pain and reproach upon me — towards everyone, but above all, towards myself. Deep shame grips me, as if I have failed not only them but myself. I could not protect our little girl from these cruel people, and this thought squeezes my chest, leaving me feeling utterly empty and powerless, as if the world collapses and I remain helpless under the debris.
Katrin rises from the sofa. Her movements are slow, but they carry determination, like a person who knows exactly what she is going to do. She moves toward me — and in that instant, a dark, cold thought flashes in my mind — she will hit me.
Like that time. A few months ago. I remember the slap I gave her. And now it all comes back. The air feels heavy, my chest as if bound with ropes tightening. My heart races, each beat echoing with alarm.
My body tenses, bracing for the blow. Dull, humiliating fear creeps to my throat, pressing like a gag. In my head, I hear my own words from back then, spoken with desperate hope, strained: "I am a good mother…" Now it seems a farce. Bitter, pitiful, almost laughable. Am I a good mother? A good grandmother? No. I failed everything. I did not protect Mary. Did not keep her safe. Did not manage.
This feeling — burning, painful, like acid — eats me from inside. Helplessness. Shame. That very shame that makes you want to disappear.
Maxim probably wouldn't even lift a finger to stop her. He knows, as I do, that Katrin is right. I brace for — the blow, the shout, the accusations. I freeze, bowing my head like a guilty child. Waiting. Perhaps even wanting it. Wanting someone to voice what I feel inside. To make the burden of my guilt a little lighter.
But Katrin… She comes and suddenly — does not hit, does not shout a word. She simply hugs me. Quietly, simply, firmly. And in this embrace, there is something absolutely human — nonjudgmental, real. Tenderness I did not expect. Support I do not deserve. Warmth that squeezes my heart.
I freeze, as if not believing what is happening, and then my hands wrap around her — timidly, awkwardly, like someone who has long forgotten how to feel closeness. And the tears — ugly, hot, spilling without shame — pour from my eyes, blinding everything.
I cry, burying my face in her shoulder, because I can no longer hold this burden inside. And for the first time in a long while — I feel that I am still alive.
"It will be okay. Maxim and his friends will do everything to find her and bring her back to us. You are not to blame," she whispers into my ear in a hoarse voice, carrying sincere support, hope, and an attempt to give me strength, as if she wants to protect me despite all the pain I inflict on myself. In her words, there is not just confidence, but a real promise and shelter from loneliness.
"That's not true. If I had watched her better and noticed what was happening around, I could have saved her in time," I now cry fully, each word tearing from the depth of my soul like a scream of despair.
I hold her tightly, feeling hot tears streaming down my cheeks, and with each drop, part of the inner tension, the heavy burden of guilt and hopelessness, slips away.
"No, Elena Dmitrievna, you did well. You tried to save Mary, but one against three, it was impossible," she gently strokes my back, soft and patient, as if trying to instill even a fraction of confidence and peace in me. In her touch, there is something reassuring, as if she says without words: "You are not alone, we are together."
How could she, after all this, welcome me into her home, and even calm me? After everything that happened between us… In my thoughts, reproach and bitter, gnawing resentment arise: I would have long ago kicked out a grandmother who could not protect her granddaughter from cruelty, betrayal, and her own helplessness.
But Katrin is different. Bright, quiet, stubbornly kind. She chooses forgiveness again and again, despite the wounds. And in this, there is something almost inhuman — as if her heart holds endless warmth, even if winter rages outside.
Maxim was right. I am the only one who has pushed this girl away all this time, as if she did not deserve a chance, did not deserve love. Even though I have long calmed down, inside still lives cold, clinging rejection. I could not truly accept her. And yet three years ago, just after meeting me, she let me into her life with an open heart, into her home. She did everything to make me feel needed. And what did I do in return?
I repaid her with coldness. Boldly shoved money at her — like alms — and openly suggested abandoning my son. That act burned my soul, as if I erased in one moment everything I could have been — mother, woman, human. The memory of it burns in my heart like red-hot iron, and I cannot suppress it.
Now I barely look at her. All my attention — to my granddaughter, only to her. Katrin seems like background, a shadow, and I see her only when my son asks. Like that time I helped them arrange a date — pretending to support, showing sympathy. But in reality… I was just waiting for her to leave. For her to disappear. I was even ready to help her for that — painfully realizing how deep my indifference had gone. This inner conflict torments me — I am becoming my own enemy.
But now, when she shows warmth toward me again, asking nothing in return… I suddenly feel tired of this struggle. Maybe it is time to stop making her an enemy. Maybe I should stop seeing in her the pain I fear to admit is mine.
And then, in the very center of this silence, like a light, almost imperceptible breeze, hope is born. Fragile, yet so alive. Maybe it's not too late. Maybe we can still become a family. Not perfect. Not without mistakes. But real. Where we support. Where we forgive. Where we do not betray.
And in this glimpse, for the first time in a long while, I feel… my heart beginning to beat freer. As if something heavy has shifted — letting a little light in.