She was 12, he was 22, and her mother was 32. Yesterday, he became her mother’s husband. Today, they told her about it.
The girl locked herself in her room and refused to leave all day. Despite their calls, her mother approached the door, suggesting they go to the movies, visit the amusement park, or meet with friends, but she remained silent. She lay on her sofa, tears streaming down her face. Eventually, exhaustion took over, and she fell asleep. As the day wore on, she simply stared at the ceiling, her mind racing. By evening, hunger finally drove her to leave her room.
It took her a couple of years to adjust. She reacted sharply to every word from her mother. Her lip curled with disdain as she watched them together. She was defiant, rude, full of resentment.
Her mother’s younger sister tried to talk to her. But she resisted. She thought about running away. And one day, she did. She hid in the stairwell of a nearby house, crouched by the attic stairs until nightfall. When she got cold, she went to her aunt’s house.
When her mother came to get her, the girl had already warmed up and eaten dinner. Her mother’s hands trembled slightly, and her eyes were red from crying. Her mother came to get her alone.
They went home in a taxi. She noticed her mother’s profile. Her mother seemed old. But he was handsome.
Then, for the first time, he disappeared for a whole month. The girl didn’t ask her mother anything. Her mother didn’t mention it either. But it felt like before at home. Just her and her mother. Their relationship even warmed up a bit. The girl found some peace.
And then, he returned to their apartment. Her young mother’s husband. The girl accepted that he was a part of their life now and forever.
She was 18, he was 28, her mother was 38. One day, she was handing him a knife across the table while they were having lunch. Deliberately letting her hand linger in his a moment longer than necessary. She looked straight into his eyes. He returned the gaze. Her mother went pale and lowered her head. They all finished their meal in silence.
Later, when her mother wasn’t home, she approached him, pressed her forehead to his back, and held her breath. He froze for a moment, then gently pushed her away, giving her shoulders a little shake, and told her not to be foolish.
She burst into tears. Why, why, why?! What did he see in her mother?! She was old! Her neck was full of wrinkles, couldn’t he see? Why would he want someone old?
He brought her a glass of water, settled her into a chair, and covered her with a blanket before leaving, the door closing firmly behind him. She sat there, tears streaming down her face, realizing she needed to move to a dorm or find an apartment. She felt rejected, humiliated.
He was handsome. He appeared in her dreams. He didn’t come home. Her mother didn’t speak. They both floated around the house like ghosts.
He returned after a few days. Her mother was out, she was alone again. Sitting at the kitchen table, sipping tea and scribbling notes.
He sat across from her, and her heart skipped a beat. “I love your mother,” he said wearily, locking eyes with her, “Accept it. Not you, your mother. Let’s not revisit this and upset each other anymore. You’re a grown-up, after all.”
He never looked away while he spoke.
The grown-up girl lay awake that night, her eyes dry, her mind blank. The next morning, she stumbled upon him and her mother in the kitchen, caught in a kiss. Nausea hit hard, and she barely made it to the bathroom.
A place in the dormitory opened up. Her mother asked her to come back. Later, she gave her money for an apartment.
She was 25, he was 35, her mother 45. Surprisingly, their relationship had nearly mended. She visited. They lunched together, chatted, and laughed. Her aunt once remarked, “Thank goodness you’ve grown up.”
Her mother was happy, content. He remained as handsome as ever. No, he was very handsome. Too handsome. She realized she’d been comparing all her suitors to him. And she didn’t like that thought.
Then she experienced a heartbreaking, impossible love. He was married and had no intention of leaving his wife. But she loved him. She would wait for him outside work, crying, not wanting to be a “lunchtime wife.” Everything was messy, painful, and raw. He took her to the seaside, showered her with gifts, surprised it wasn’t enough. Did everything have to fit into a format, he wondered, with veils and shared toothbrushes? He’d done that already. Even the greatest love turns mundane when people constantly pass each other solving daily problems.
She disagreed, shook her head stubbornly. She recalled her mother being kissed by her husband in the kitchen. And she, the fool, running to the bathroom, revolted. How did she not see that a life together could be different? Beautiful. Serene. Genuine.
That year tossed her around like a storm. She seldom visited home. Occasionally saw her mother at cafes, dropped by their place a few times. Her mother had slimmed down, understandably so, as she always took great care in her appearance. Her mother still had a handsome husband, and now she, older and wiser, truly understood her mother.
She was 28, he was 38, her mother 48. She found a job in another city and moved. Rather, she’d sought out work elsewhere to escape the heavy past relationship that devoured almost three years of her life.
In the new place, she settled in, calmed down, and even began a relationship with a colleague, an unmarried and attractive one. Marriage seemed like the next step, starting a family, making life decisions.
Her mother’s husband came to her new city for work. They went out for lunch. She felt light and cheerful. She shared every detail of her new life, asked about his work, about her mother. He answered. As she glanced at his hands, an overwhelming desire for him to hug her consumed her…
He seemed to sense it. Grew quiet, carefully choosing his words, fearful of causing hurt. Nonetheless, he said it. He loved her, the little, emotional girl. He understood her pain, her grievances, her desires. They would always remain good friends, and she could always rely on him for support.
It was awkward for both. She shook her head and laughed: honestly, what did she expect from him?
Then he phoned, saying her mother was unwell and wanted to see her. She immediately called her mother, who sounded exhausted but optimistic. “Of course, my dear, come this weekend. No, not these ones, take care of your things first. Next weekend. Yes, would be lovely to see you, I’ve missed you so much. Have you forgiven me?” her mother unexpectedly asked. “For him, have you forgiven? You liked him, I saw and knew it right away. And I’ve regretted how it all unfolded a hundred times over. Forgive me, please. Hurting you was never my intention…”
Then he called again, saying her mother was in the clinic. Urging her to come. Her job needed two days, she assured him, she’d be there then. Two days weren’t long, surely? Not long, come over, they’d have the diagnosis by then.
She arrived, yet missed her mother. He stood in the hospital corridor, eyes vacant. Beautiful but distant. Gave her a heavy look. Then turned away to the window.
After the funeral, she wandered their apartment like a phantom. Reorganizing belongings, washing dishes unnecessarily, repeatedly brewing and discarding steeped tea, cleaning the windows.
He stayed occupied too. Came home late. Skipped dinner. Slipped quietly into the bedroom.
One day, when he was out, she peeked inside. The air carried the scent of her mother’s perfume, the ghost of former happiness. Her heart ached as she saw her mother’s photographs scattered on the dresser, the walls, the bedspread… She sharply shut the door.
She realized she never truly understood them. Concluded she never would.