We come back home. The house greets us with its familiar silence, warm coziness, and a rhythm we slowly slip back into. The weekdays start—measured, sometimes a bit tiring, but familiar. Max and I spend time together either in the mornings, when the world is just waking up and the apartment is filled with soft, almost crystalline silence, or after lunch—until dinner—when we're both tired from the day, but still happy to be together. At other times, he's busy with institute. His studies demand all his attention, as the final exams are ahead. It's an important stage, and I don't want to disturb him because I once left him—many years ago. I left so he could finish what was important to him. Back then, I thought I was doing the right thing. I believed I was freeing him, giving him a chance to focus on his path, his studies, his future. But the truth is, I broke something between us. I pushed him away, hoping it would be for the best, but inside, everything clenched with pain. And now, as he moves toward his goal—steadily, confidently—I try not to interfere, not to knock him off course again. Just to be near, quietly, delicately, respecting his choices. Because I know how fragile this balance can be. And how precious—our return to what we once had.
My beloved doesn't forget about us, even when he's buried in work. His attention warms me. He constantly writes to me: short messages—sometimes humorous, sometimes tender, sometimes just "How are you?"—but there's always something real, alive in them. And during breaks, we often talk on the phone, and in those calls, I hear his voice, which immediately sweeps away all my worries.
Coming home, Max always brings us little treats—sometimes chocolate, sometimes pastries, sometimes just something unexpected and sweet. I joke that soon I'll get so chubby I won't fit through the door, but Max just laughs in response. On the contrary, he doesn't mind—he likes me in any shape, with any curves, even with whims. As long as I stay myself inside. As long as my soul doesn't change. His love for my essence, for my inner fire—that's something special. And it touches me to tears how he accepts and loves me just as I am.
My Rebel Boy.
I've already gotten used to calling him that. The nickname sticks to him like a reflection of his character—free, strong, stubborn, yet warm and genuine. And every time I call him that, he lights up. Truly. Like a boy who's been given something he's wanted for so long.
I understand him. Deeply. Because I feel the same when he calls me Rebel Girl. It's between us—not just a game, but our little secret, our way of showing how we see each other.
We're a strange pair. Sometimes seemingly incompatible, like ice and fire, but at the same time inseparable. We love so strongly that it's hard to breathe without each other. We argue—brightly, reconcile—strongly. We live—together and exist—for each other.
I worry about us parting again, even for a day. This feeling of anxiety washes over me. It seeps slowly, filling every corner of my soul, leaving uncertainty behind. After we finally are together, truly, like one complete family, I don't want to be separated from him for even a minute. We've worked so long for this, overcoming distances and the past, and now even a short separation seems wrong, unnecessary, painful. As if something inside begins to break, lose balance.
Even though I understand that sooner or later there will be a time when we'll be apart, even briefly, my heart cannot accept it. It moans with every hour without him, with every thought of emptiness beside me. For example, I know he will be sent on work trips—it's normal, logical, part of his life and new opportunities. But I don't expect it to happen so quickly, almost suddenly, as if the world didn't give me time to prepare, gather myself, accept it. As if someone ripped the curtain from my calm and left me exposed to the storm.
Of course, I have no say, because this is his new life, his step forward. Even though he insists that the past chapter is closed and speaks about it with certainty, it doesn't mean everything will return to how it was three years ago. That's impossible. We've changed. Time and circumstances have rewritten us, as if we became new versions of ourselves.
Even I—now I'm a mother. Not just a woman, not just a girl, but a mother. And I have many responsibilities, obligations; every morning is full of care, every evening—thoughts about the next day. All this has changed me from the inside. I've become different. Deeper. Softer. But also stronger. My love has matured, like aged wine—tart, rich, full of meaning. Sometimes I don't even recognize myself in the mirror—not outwardly, but in my eyes, in the depth of my gaze, in my actions.
Mary is playing with dolls when I enter the bedroom. Her tiny fingers lovingly intertwine the hair of her favorite doll; she hums something quietly to herself, immersed in her doll world. There is something touching and pure in this serenity. The girl is a little sick again, so I go to the kitchen to make her favorite tea with raspberry jam. This tea is like a warm childhood story for her, a cozy tradition. It warms not just the throat but the soul.
My grandmother, Mary, and I gather raspberries growing near the house. What happiness it is to see Mary helping us with joy, choosing the ripest berries with a serious look. She laughs, wiping juice from her fingers, as the sun plays in her hair. Then, after sorting every berry, my grandmother and I make jam, and the house fills with the smell of childhood, summer, and warmth. That scent is like an anchor in the past, like a soft embrace of time that can't be returned but can be kept in memory.
"Mary, it's time to drink tea with jam. Put your dolls aside," I instruct her, trying to speak gently, yet firmly, like a mother who cares about everything—health and comfort. There is tenderness in my voice, with a hint of anxious care.
"Okay, mommy," she replies with her bright, slightly husky little voice. And the word—"mommy"—touches me to tears every time, as if I hear it for the first time.
My little daughter carefully puts her dolls aside and, spreading the blanket comfortably, sits down. I walk over to her and bring a tray with the jam, and then the cup of tea. Sitting next to her, I watch carefully so she doesn't spill anything or knock over the cup. Although the tea is slightly hot, I don't want to take any risks—she is too precious to me. I'm not just protecting her; it feels as if I'm holding her inside my heart, like a precious little flame.
After she finishes, I turn on cartoons on the tablet, knowing she will most likely fall asleep to them. This is our special ritual—tea, cartoons, sleep. I tuck her in snugly and kiss her forehead—the same one that, unlike yesterday, is no longer hot. It's warm, and the fever is gone. The temperature has dropped, and I feel so relieved, as if a heavy stone has been lifted from my soul. If all goes well tomorrow, in a couple of days she will be able to play outside again, laugh, run, touch the wet grass with her little hands, and wave at the bees. It's just a common cold, no complications, as the hospital told us—and I repeat this to myself so I don't worry unnecessarily. I seem to lull my fears like a baby—gently, quietly, with hope.
Maxim worries when we visit the pediatrician—I see the struggle between his anxiety and his desire to help. He loves Mary, loves her sincerely, with all his heart. And now that he's her dad, he tries to protect her, care for her, be near. Of course, her being sick is a real stress for him, because he feels responsible. He's learning to be a father, and he does it with such dedication that my heart tightens with pride and gratitude.
My beloved is a good dad. Real. Not showy, not like in a book—but alive, sensitive, needed. Watching them together, a part of me envies him—kindly, but deeply. I wish my own dad had been as wonderful as Maxim—warm, reliable, caring. But I am sincerely happy that at least my daughter is lucky with her father. Because that's the most important thing. That is love. Real love.
Carrying the tray and its contents, I go to the kitchen. The tray still feels pleasantly heavy in my hands—the warmth of the ceramic cup and the soft weight of the glass jar of jam. The smell—thick, sticky, like boiled sunlight—lingers in the air, as if an invisible cloud surrounds me, following my every step, unwilling to let go of its sweet veil. I place everything on the table and wash the cup slowly. Streams of warm water trickle over my fingers with a soft rustle, washing away the remnants of tea and bringing a quiet, almost forgotten feeling of comfort. I carefully put the jam in the fridge.
Then I go to the living room, where, as it turns out, Maxim has already returned from university.
"You're back already?" I ask, but in the same second, forgetting everything, I run straight into him.
My movements outrun my thoughts, feelings—words. Joy, sharp and bright like fireworks, bursts out. I cannot and do not want to hold back—I am overwhelmed by relief and delight, as if all day I have lived for this moment. I've waited, missed him, hoped.
"Yes, my love, I'm home," he says, holding me tightly and spinning me in the air. His arms are reliable, strong, like an anchor in a stormy sea. And I… I feel light, weightless, almost transparent, like a dandelion lifted above the ground. No gravity. Only love, motion, and laughter. I squeal with joy, trying not to be too loud—holding back because I don't want our daughter to hear us. She's just warmed herself under the blanket, and I know that if she hears our laughter, she will come running. She always does—barefoot. Even if she wears socks, to me it's still "barefoot in the cold."