I hung up the phone and stood motionless for a few seconds, staring at the wall. From the kitchen came nervous footsteps, drawers slamming shut, and murmurs heavy with contempt. Marta had no intention of leaving. On the contrary, she was becoming increasingly self-assured, as if she owned the place.
After a few minutes I left the bedroom. I wasn’t going to hide in my own home.
“Are you done talking?” she greeted me with her arms crossed. “Then start packing your things. I’m not going to put up with you here much longer.”
“I’m not going anywhere, Marta,” I said calmly, surprising even myself. “This is my apartment. And it will stay that way.”
“We’ll see!” he scoffed. “When Thomas arrives, he’ll tell the truth. Unlike you.”
For the first time since it all began, I smiled. A tired but firm smile.
—The truth comes on its own. There’s no need to call for it.
When the front door opened, Marta was the first to jump up. Thomas rushed in, his face tense, and dropped his bag on the floor.
“What’s going on here?” he asked, avoiding looking at me.
“Tell him!” Marta burst out. “Tell him the apartment is yours! I’m not crazy!”
Thomas swallowed hard. He finally looked at me, then looked down.
—Mom… we need to talk.
“Speak!” she almost shouted.
“The apartment… isn’t mine,” he said quietly. “It belongs to Sophie. Her parents bought it. I… didn’t contribute anything.”
The words fell heavily, like stones. Marta froze, her mouth slightly open.
“What nonsense are you talking about?” she whispered. “You told me that…”
“I know what I told you,” he interrupted. “I lied to you.”
“You lied?!” Her voice suddenly rose. “For years?”
-Yeah.
An oppressive silence fell. Marta slowly slumped into the chair, as if her legs could no longer support her.
“So… what am I doing here?” he murmured.
“You’re a guest,” I said. “But after what you did today, I don’t think you should stay.”
He glared at me with hatred and then turned his gaze to his son.
—Are you kicking me out because of her?
“For the truth,” Thomas replied. “And because you were wrong.”
She stood up abruptly, grabbed her coat and her bag.
“Don’t look for me again,” she told him. “You’ve already made your choice.”
The door slammed shut. A strange, almost painful emptiness filled the apartment.
Thomas turned towards me.
—Sophie… I’m sorry. I just wanted to look better in your eyes.
“And what about mine?” I asked. “What did you want to appear to me to be?”
He did not respond.
“You let him believe I was nobody,” I continued. “You allowed him to humiliate me in my own home. That’s not ‘tranquility.’ That’s cowardice.”
“I can fix it,” he said quickly. “I promise.”
“No,” I shook my head. “Some things can’t be fixed. You learn from them and move on.”
That night Thomas slept on the sofa. In the morning I told him I wanted a divorce. He didn’t protest. Perhaps, for the first time, he was honest.
A few weeks later, the apartment was quiet again. I bought a new vase, simple, without ornamentation. Not to replace the one that broke, but to remind myself of one thing: the truth, however painful, makes less noise than a lie, but remains intact.
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