In the morning he surprised me alone in a huge room, the white curtains floating in the cold air of the air conditioning. For a few seconds I didn’t even realize where I was. Then I felt pain in my hip and back, and I moaned softly as I tried to get out of bed.
It was not at all as I had imagined. It wasn’t the romance that hurt me. It was heels. Those impossible heels that Amir had insisted that I wear all evening. He had laughed when he saw me staggering into the upscale restaurant where he had taken me to dinner. “Mariana, you have to learn to walk like a queen,” she said with a smile. And I, stupid and stunned by the attention I was getting, had tried to be someone else.
After years of wearing only kitchen clogs and cheap overalls, I found myself perched on designer sandals that cost half my salary. All night long I walked back and forth to the hotel, on the polished marble, smiling and pretending to be comfortable. And in the morning I could barely sit up. I started laughing to myself. A tired, bitter and sincere laugh.
It was then that Amir came out of the bathroom, dressed in a white shirt. “What happened?” Your princess shoes killed me,” I said. He looked at me for a few seconds, then burst out laughing. A real laugh. Hot. I’m not kidding. And for the first time since I knew him, I felt that he was a human being, not just the perfect image he was trying to project.
Behind the scenes of a golden life
Over the next few days, I began to see the other side of his life. Yes, he had money. A lot of money. But he lived alone in a huge villa, he talked more on the phone than with people, and almost no one visited him without interest. One evening, we were sitting on the terrace of the villa drinking tea. “Why did you flee Romania?” he asked me directly. I thought about it for a moment. “Because no one saw me at home anymore.” He put down the cup. “And here, do you see yourself?”
This question struck me more than I could have imagined. I thought of myself, of the woman who left Buz膬u with a suitcase and dreamed late. To those who wanted to show that she could still be desired. But the truth was something else. It wasn’t love I was looking for, but the feeling that I still mattered to someone.
That night, I slept very little. The next morning I called my daughter. Hearing his voice, my throat tightened. “Mom… Where are you? Dad is devastated. I closed my eyes. For the first time in weeks, I thought about the NICU if not with bitterness. I imagined him alone in the kitchen, heating the soup on the stove and staring at my empty chair. Perhaps he didn’t know how to love well either. But that didn’t mean he didn’t suffer.
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page The return to oneself
Two days later, I bought a ticket to go home. Amir drove me to the airport. “Will you come back?” he asked. I looked at him and smiled sadly. “I don’t think so.” Why?” I took a deep breath. “Because I came here to escape from my life. But I realized that if I want to change something, I have to go back and change things there. »
He was silent for a few seconds. Then he put a small box in my palm. Inside were the pair of heeled sandals. “So you don’t forget that you can be different from what you’ve been all your life.” I laughed through my tears.
When I returned to Romania, the NICU was waiting for me in front of the building. It looked bigger. Leaner. We looked at each other for a long time without knowing what to say. Then he asked softly, “Did you find what you were looking for?” I looked at my suitcase, expensive sandals, and tired hands from work. And I replied sincerely: “No. But I found myself. »
The following spring, I didn’t go back to the canteen. I opened a small neighborhood pastry shop, with savings and the help of my children. And every morning, when I open the door and the smell of vanilla and warm cake envelops me, I feel that my life, finally, has really begun.
This narrative is inspired by real events and people, but it has been fictionalized for creative purposes. Names, characters, and details have been changed to protect privacy and enrich the narrative. Any resemblance to real persons, living or deceased, or to real events, is purely coincidental and involuntary on the part of the author. The author and publisher are not responsible for the accuracy of the events or the manner in which the characters are portrayed, and cannot be held responsible for any misinterpretations. This story is provided “as is”, and the opinions expressed are those of the characters and do not reflect those of the author or publisher.
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