cried. “I am so sorry! For you and your mother … to have lived through that…” She brought her hand to his face again. He took it, brought it to his mouth, kissed her fingers.
They sat in silence for several minutes. Finally, Tillz cleared his throat and turned back to Anja.
“Tell me more about you,” Tillz said, wanting to change the subject. For that, Anja could not blame him.
“What shall I say? There is nothing about me worth noting.”
“There is plenty about you I wish to know,” Tillz said. He probed her with questions, wanting to know about not just her current situation but every detail of her past. He told her he wanted to know the dramatic and the mundane. He wanted to know why she shouldered so much of the responsibility at the mill, and Anja was torn between wanting to confide everything to him, and wanting to shield her wayward father from any censure. In attempting to explain her father, she found herself talking about her mother, a subject she was usually desperate to keep private.
“She was so beautiful, so kind, and … something … so much more ,” Anja said. “She was the person everyone else seemed to orbit. It seemed as if she could right every wrong, soothe every hurt, make every naughty child instantly fall in line.” Anja laughed softly. “I know it sounds like the ramblings of a wide-eyed child worshiping at the feet of her mother, but it was true. My father often told me my mother saved his life, that before he met her he was wild and ungoverned and on a path to self-destruction. She tamed him, he always said, made him want to be a better man. And you could see it in his face, how it lit up every time he saw her, how her presence provided him a mooring he lacked without her.”
Anja’s heart felt heavy. “But it was as though all the strength she had, she gave to others, leaving nothing for herself.” She shivered, and Tillz wrapped his arms tight around her. “She never had a very strong constitution, and I … there was difficulty when I was born. She never fully recovered, could never risk any more children.” Anja hastily wiped away the tear falling down her cheek, embarrassed. “I was twelve when she sickened for the last time. I watched as she weakened, as she slowly and painfully faded away. And my father seemed to fade along with her.” Anja struggled to contain a sob. “He was never the same after she was gone, and that is when he began drinking and gambling.” Her tears were flowing freely now, and Tillz reached up a hand to gently brush away the wetness staining her cheeks. “I am so sorry to be carrying on so,” she said quietly. “It’s so foolish, after the story you have just told me, how much worse things were for you.”
Tillz drew Anja against him. “There is nothing foolish about your sadness,” he said. “You cannot compare one person’s grief with another’s. I know what it is to lose a mother, yes, but it cannot be said that my loss is more tragic than yours. Your heart breaks for your mother as my heart does for mine, and it is a pain we both share in equal measures.”
“I miss her so much,” Anja said, her words muffled against his chest.
“I know,” Tillz said simply, and Anja felt his quiet understanding wrap around her like a warm cloak.
Tillz held Anja silently, and she found comfort in his strength. For once, Anja allowed herself to be vulnerable, to let someone else know the burden she carried. Anja had always been strong for her father, because he wasn’t, and if she let her façade of stoic competence waiver or crack, there would be no one left to hold together the pieces of their lives. With Tillz, though, she could stop pretending, and she could grieve, and she let it swell up and overtake her.
He stroked her back as she cried into his chest, and when she was done and her tears were dried, still he held her. Finally, her grief shrank back to its usual place locked within her heart, and she looked up to find Tillz
They sat in silence for several minutes. Finally, Tillz cleared his throat and turned back to Anja.
“Tell me more about you,” Tillz said, wanting to change the subject. For that, Anja could not blame him.
“What shall I say? There is nothing about me worth noting.”
“There is plenty about you I wish to know,” Tillz said. He probed her with questions, wanting to know about not just her current situation but every detail of her past. He told her he wanted to know the dramatic and the mundane. He wanted to know why she shouldered so much of the responsibility at the mill, and Anja was torn between wanting to confide everything to him, and wanting to shield her wayward father from any censure. In attempting to explain her father, she found herself talking about her mother, a subject she was usually desperate to keep private.
“She was so beautiful, so kind, and … something … so much more ,” Anja said. “She was the person everyone else seemed to orbit. It seemed as if she could right every wrong, soothe every hurt, make every naughty child instantly fall in line.” Anja laughed softly. “I know it sounds like the ramblings of a wide-eyed child worshiping at the feet of her mother, but it was true. My father often told me my mother saved his life, that before he met her he was wild and ungoverned and on a path to self-destruction. She tamed him, he always said, made him want to be a better man. And you could see it in his face, how it lit up every time he saw her, how her presence provided him a mooring he lacked without her.”
Anja’s heart felt heavy. “But it was as though all the strength she had, she gave to others, leaving nothing for herself.” She shivered, and Tillz wrapped his arms tight around her. “She never had a very strong constitution, and I … there was difficulty when I was born. She never fully recovered, could never risk any more children.” Anja hastily wiped away the tear falling down her cheek, embarrassed. “I was twelve when she sickened for the last time. I watched as she weakened, as she slowly and painfully faded away. And my father seemed to fade along with her.” Anja struggled to contain a sob. “He was never the same after she was gone, and that is when he began drinking and gambling.” Her tears were flowing freely now, and Tillz reached up a hand to gently brush away the wetness staining her cheeks. “I am so sorry to be carrying on so,” she said quietly. “It’s so foolish, after the story you have just told me, how much worse things were for you.”
Tillz drew Anja against him. “There is nothing foolish about your sadness,” he said. “You cannot compare one person’s grief with another’s. I know what it is to lose a mother, yes, but it cannot be said that my loss is more tragic than yours. Your heart breaks for your mother as my heart does for mine, and it is a pain we both share in equal measures.”
“I miss her so much,” Anja said, her words muffled against his chest.
“I know,” Tillz said simply, and Anja felt his quiet understanding wrap around her like a warm cloak.
Tillz held Anja silently, and she found comfort in his strength. For once, Anja allowed herself to be vulnerable, to let someone else know the burden she carried. Anja had always been strong for her father, because he wasn’t, and if she let her façade of stoic competence waiver or crack, there would be no one left to hold together the pieces of their lives. With Tillz, though, she could stop pretending, and she could grieve, and she let it swell up and overtake her.
He stroked her back as she cried into his chest, and when she was done and her tears were dried, still he held her. Finally, her grief shrank back to its usual place locked within her heart, and she looked up to find Tillz
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