Karolina stood in the middle of the kitchen. Her hair was disheveled, her face tense with anger, and she clutched a wooden spoon—the same kind you usually use to stir soup. Only now she held it like a weapon. In front of her, pressed back against the kitchen table, stood my mother, Zofia. Her gray hair had fallen out of its tight bun, her lip was split, and her hands were shaking so badly that she couldn’t lift the cup that lay shattered at her feet. I’d never seen her so small in my life. “Please…” she whispered again, covering her face with her hands. “I just wanted to clean up…” Karolina took a step forward. “I told you not to touch my things!” She waved again. “Enough.” My voice came out softly. But the kitchen immediately froze. Karolina whirled around. First surprise crossed her face. Then fear. And then the same polite mask I’d seen at hundreds of dinners and parties. “Michał?” “You… are you back already?” I slowly walked into the kitchen. Each step I took echoed in my head. My mother was still standing, not looking up. She hadn’t even noticed I’d arrived. “I forgot my passport,” I said. Karolina gave a short, nervous laugh. “See?” she turned to my mother.
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