Carla
When I was younger I loved the smallest gestures he dealt with me. Even the smallest crumb of interest shown by him made me feel for the moment the most important person in his life. For a moment, for a second. In his very light blue eyes I could see a note of curiosity and attention. A flash of spawn and belligerence. The facial expressions were pugnacious, but also fatigue. I knew perfectly well that his attention must be divided into four people. Because in addition to my mother and me, there was Jude and little Emily - the most important person in our family. When Emily was born, I noticed that my father became an absent ghost every day. It gradually faded. There was sadness in his eyes, disbelief, until one day I noticed that he broke down.
My mother was at work that day. She loved creating house for her clients. She was an architect by calling. She loved what she did - to fulfill dreams of families who wanted to create their own nook. Architecture was her passion, the apple of her eye, the fourth child who cared as much as the three of us.
When I got home from school, at first I thought we had a burglary. Our shoes mixed with his clothes were in the corridor. I called to my mother. She already knew. She had a very calm, controlled voice. She told me to go to her room and practice “Clair the lune” on the violin, which I had learned to play for several years. I played until my fingertips ached. I played until the bow began to lose hair. I played until at one point I felt tears streaming down my cheeks. My music combined with the pain I felt in my heart. Like my mother, I already know. He left.
I heard, that the door slam shut from the ground floor. Silent steps. Meanwhile, my game sounded like great despair. Like longing for something that has already ended.
“Carla?” I heard my mother’s warm voice.
I left the instrument, which fell on a wooden floor in a deafening sound, and ran to my mother. I snuggled into her shoulder, soaking my clothes with tears. I needed her warmth hands, that gently stroked my back. I wanted her to lift my spirits at this moment, for my world was falling apart. Collapsed. It was over! I felt weak, underestimated, I thought it was my fault, that I did something wrong, I tried too hard to be the best daughter.
My mother let me cry. She knew that my tears came from misunderstanding this situation. At one point she crouched down and said with a focused expression that I saw for the first time in my life:
“I won’t let it break us. Do you hear me?” She brushed the unruly brown lock that fell on my face behind my ear. ”What happened is neither your fault nor anyone in our family. Remember that, okay? You are the best daughter I could have dreamed of. You are a strong girl, capable and loved by your mother, do you understand?”
I only remember how, among tears and a twitching chin, which I tried at all costs to show my mother that I was strong, I only nodded my head. I believed in every word my mother said at that moment. She loved me and I loved her, Jude and little Emily. I felt it wasn’t the end of the world. It was just the beginning of our story, which we had to rewrite.
