The life

“I love you, forever”


“I don’t want to hear it!” I stick my chubby fingers into my small ears so I can feel my heart pulsing in my head and my mother’s heart on my chest as she is pushing me towards her breasts trying to protect me. I am gasping, she is squeezing me still harder and I can feel her fear as my own. I feel the weight of pieces of the glass doors falling on us, leaving small scratches on our skin. Tears are running down our faces as we are trying to hide in the bedroom. But there is no place to go, just a cold room with four walls, four corners and one door blocked by my biological father. I am four and I cannot understand what is happening. But I know it is bad. And it is getting even worse. That angry man runs into the room with my grandmother behind the back, trying to beat the body two times bigger and stronger than hers. I and my mother are just sitting on the floor in the furthest corner of the room, trying to disappear. But there is no other way, no choice, we are there and he is there. One family in one room fighting against each other. But there is a small thing that keeps me certain and safe-my mother’s arms. The heat of her body warms me up and tells me that everything will be ok, that I cannot be afraid, and that she is there to protect me and I am there to protect her. She whispers in my ear:”I love you, forever.”This day has bonded us together. Forever.

“I don’t want to hear it!” I stick my small fingers into my ears. My mother keeps pushing the horn to get through the traffic jam, when the car behind us comes still closer and closer, and I am watching it with wide eyes, not able to move. The car in front of us moves in the last second and we are driving away, trying to escape from that big black scary-looking truck behind us. Both cars keep speeding up, driving through the city, ignoring red lights, horns of other cars and yelling people. My mother is quiet, concentrating on the road while I am quietly crying in the back seat. I do not want to frighten her, I do not want to make her sad and afraid about me, I know that together we are strong enough to get over it, but I am five years old and I am scared. When she puts foot down on the break, I notice that we stopped in front of the police station. The big black truck with smoky shiny windows slowly rides by our small car and we cannot stop staring at it. Then my mother turns back to me and sees my tears hanging on my chin. She hugs me and whispers to my ear:”I love you, forever.”

“I don’t want to hear it!” I stick my fingers with the brand new neon nail polish into my twelve-year-old ears. I cannot stand it! Why does she always keep telling me what should I do? Why I just cannot do the things the way I want to? Why does she not want to let me go out with that cute boy with the cool motorbike? I shut the door and close myself in my room, pretending big anger and offence. But I know she is right. I exactly know what she means. She comes into my room few minutes later with the tears in her eyes. She hugs me and whispers in my ear: “I love you, forever.” And I hug her, without saying a word back. My father was once the cute boy with a cool motorbike. Once. Maybe he was not that cute and the motorbike was not that cool.

“I don’t want to hear it!” I stick my long fingers with a fresh manicure into my ears. I am fifteen and my boyfriend is seventeen. I am going to his house to celebrate birthday of one of our friends. And my mother is giving me a lecture on the sexuality of seventeen-year-old boys. I look her straight into the eyes and say: “Mum, I know.” Something has changed. Now she is scared and I am not. She hugs me and whispers to my ear:” I know you are smart; I am just scared because I do not want you to go over it again. I love you, forever.”

“I don’t want to hear it!” I stick my fingers into my ears. Then we both start to laugh. My father, my real father just gives my brother a fast look and rolls his eyes. “Oh, women” he says. But I and my mother know that it is not just a girly joke, there is something deeper behind it. The past that is connecting us, everything we went through together, the times when we were just two weak women in the big world condemned to protect each other. Something that could not be so strong without a hard past. Now we are standing there as one big family, watching our fifth main member sleeping in the tiny stroller. She comes to me and hugs me with those warm words flying into my ear: “I love you, forever.” “I love you too, mum,” I reply.