Unease. Four ways to fall

Chapter II (part 2) - Sofia

The commotion immediately catches Mom's attention. The door bursts open, and she rushes in, breathless, her blue eyes wide with panic.

«Girls, what's going on? Why are you screaming?»

Aurora and I freeze, then burst out laughing and jump off the bed almost in unison.

«Mom!» exclaims Aurora, standing in front of her, at least six inches taller, her hands still clasped with mine.

«The results are out! I won the scholarship!»

«Won?» I say, bursting with pride. «I'd say she devoured it! She came first in the rankings, Mom!»

My mother lets out a cry of joy, then laughs heartily as tears stream down her face.

She throws her arms around her without thinking, hugging her with all her strength, as laughter and sobs merge into a single, wonderful explosion.

«Oh, my love!» Mom's voice trembles, choked with emotion. «I knew it... I knew you would do it. You are my pride and joy.»

Aurora smiles, her eyes shining.

Mom continues to talk, carried away by her enthusiasm: she calls her an «extraordinary daughter,» says she's lucky to have her, that no one else is on her level.

And suddenly, that joy that I felt just a moment ago... falters.

I remain silent, taking a step back. I let the scene wash over me as if I were watching a movie.

She doesn't even notice me standing there. But that's nothing new: it happens so often that I might as well carry a sign that says «secondary character.»

She has never said it explicitly, but it's clear: for her, Aurora is the standard. The yardstick.

Just look at how she talks to her, how she looks at her, that tone she never uses with me.

With me, there's always a different nuance. A little tolerance, a little discomfort. As if whatever I do, I'm always out of focus.

But today is Aurora's day. And I know her behavior by heart. I've studied it, digested it, filed it away.

When I was little, it hurt me. I thought it was my fault, that I was doing something wrong. Then I realized that no, I'm just not her type.

I love her. But because she's my mother, not for any other reason.

We never get along. My sarcasm — which Dad loves, because he passed it on to me — is just well-articulated rudeness to her.

Once, she said to me:

«Your presence makes me dizzy, Sofia. When you speak, I don't understand you, and when I do understand you, it's because you've just insulted me.»

And what could I say in reply? Those words said it all.

Deep down, she's always been like that. Not secretive, not profound — just immobile. There's no mystery in her silences, just a lack of movement.

«Luckily, we take after Dad,» I often find myself saying to Aurora.

And, without fail, she glares at me with her usual dirty look.

But inside me, there remains an unshakeable certainty: the best of us comes from him.

In the midst of the celebrations, I hear the familiar sound of the key turning in the lock.

«It must be Dad!» exclaims Mom.

Aurora and I don't wait a second: we dash out of the living room as if we had springs under our feet, laughter exploding in our throats as we run down the hall.

As soon as Dad sets foot in the house, we pounce on him: a double hug that envelops him along with our laughter and overlapping words, as if we didn't have time to breathe.

«My girls, what a welcome!» he exclaims, amused.

«Dad! I passed the test! I came first!»

Aurora buries her face in his neck, her voice cracked with emotion, her eyes shiny, her face lit up like I haven't seen in weeks.

Dad stands still for a moment, as if he needs to make sure he heard correctly.

He hugs us even tighter, enveloping us both, and for a moment he almost lifts us off the ground.

The smell of smoke and metal from the refinery permeates his clothes, but when he envelops us, I recognize his own scent: a hint of cloves and sandalwood, warm and pungent.

«That's news!» he exclaims, kissing Aurora on the forehead, then me. «I knew it. I had no doubt.» That little wrinkle forms between his eyebrows, as it always does when his emotions betray him.

Ah, Dad. The man of my life.

Full of genuine enthusiasm, with that unique ability he has to always make us feel like we're the most beautiful and precious things in the whole world.

I have always admired him in a way I cannot explain. It is not a matter of logic. It is instinct, or imprinting, or something equally immeasurable.

In my eyes, Dad has always been a hero. Not because he changed the world, but because he changed ours.

Tireless, ever-present, capable of transforming even the most mundane trip to the supermarket into an adventurous journey.

All it took was a glance, that brilliant tone with which he improvised improbable plots, and whoever we met — the cashier, the deli counter guy, a dented can — became part of the story.

He worked hard, but he was always there. Not in the sense of «present at school plays with his gaze lost in space.» No. He was truly present. With his head, his voice, his imagination.

He was capable of building worlds: pillows that became fortresses, chairs that were spaceships, torn sheets of paper that turned into maps of imaginary territories complete with legends, enemies, and improbable kingdoms with ridiculous names that really existed for us.

And that magic, incredibly, still works. All it takes is a forest, the two of us side by side, and his voice telling a story — and I'm back there again, at six years old, convinced that a dragon could really appear from behind a bush to be defeated.

Or saved. It depends on the story.

He was the one who taught me to love nature. Not in a theoretical way, with books or documentaries, but in the field: among the brambles, the nettles, and the silence of the trees, which is definitely better than certain human voices.

He also taught me not to be afraid of getting lost. Literally.

Sometimes we have fun like this: we take the worst-looking path — the one no one in their right mind would choose — without a map, without a destination, and we get lost. Then, calmly, we find our way back.

Which, after all, is all the fun.

And when we feel particularly daring — or reckless, depending on your point of view — we throw ourselves into an improvised via ferrata or a climb.

We return home with scratched palms, arms begging for mercy, and that strange lightness that — so far — no one else has been able to give me.

We always tried to get Aurora involved too. At first, she followed us enthusiastically. Then... she realized who she was dealing with.

«You two are reckless,» she declared last time, as she removed twigs and leaves from her hair after we had abandoned the official trail for a narrow passage that offered, in order: vertical rock on the left, a ravine on the right, and room for maneuvering like alpine goats.

«Come on, honey,» Dad commented enthusiastically. «That's how you toughen up.»

She stopped talking to us for the rest of the day, while we couldn't stop laughing.

Since then, she has limited herself to waiting for us on the balcony. And every time we come back, she hugs us as if to check that all our bones are still in place.

«I'd say we need to celebrate... how about we go out for dinner?»

The proposal triggers an explosion of enthusiasm.

We are simple people — not in the poetic sense of the term, but in the practical sense: we eat at home, we save money where we can, we hope that no appliances make any new noises.

Dad works in a refinery as an environmental operator. It's a tough, dirty, underpaid job: the epitome of that so-called «dream steady job.»

And as if the grueling shifts weren't enough, his salary has remained virtually unchanged for years.

Except now everything else costs twice as much.

So making ends meet has become a kind of obstacle course.

But today is different.

Because Aurora has made it. And that little flame of hope, lit by the idea that her future could really be better than his, burns a little for him too. Knowing that he has contributed, even if only in part, with his work, to her scholarship... is a real victory.

And since reasons to celebrate are rare around here, we might as well take advantage of it.

We get ready quickly and by seven o'clock we are already at the door, ready to go out.

Mom is gorgeous. Not just beautiful — gorgeous. She has the same blue eyes as Aurora, but deeper, more experienced. In that emerald green dress, she looks like she's stepped out of an expensive perfume ad: fair skin, impeccable posture, innate elegance.

At over fifty, she has more s*x appeal than me and most girls my age.

Fortunately, however, whoever rules the universe has had a little mercy on us mere mortals: all that beauty is balanced by an icy and sour character. A kind of perfectly balanced cosmic equation.

Before leaving, she turns to us and gives us a quick once-over. A quick, surgical scan: heaven forbid we should dishonor her with something out of place.

She gives Dad the usual look — two seconds flat, as always — and presses her lips together at the sight of his jeans, but says nothing.

She knows it would be a waste of time.

He smiles. She sighs.

Then her eyes rest on Aurora.

She is impeccable: neat hair, shiny English shoes, dark tights, a beige dress with ruffles that falls on her as if it were tailor-made. She gives her a smug smile, as if to say without words: well done, that's the way to do it.

She fixes a strand of aubergine-colored hair that has escaped from her chignon. Her fingers tremble slightly as she looks at herself in the hall mirror, but I already know what's coming.

She turns to me, and the soundtrack to Jaws starts playing in my head.

«Sofia!» she exclaims.

I snort. «Here we go again.»

«How many times do I have to tell you? Look at your hair: it's a sorry sight. And those clothes... jeans and a black T-shirt? Really? We're going to a restaurant, not the market. I know your father has infected you with his mountain style, but at least for tonight you could make an effort.»

Dad yodels beside me, I stifle a laugh while Mom gives me a look that says: this isn't funny.

It's always the same story. And it's not just about how I dress — I think, deep down, she doesn't like my whole look.

I've never understood, let alone shared, her obsession with appearances. Especially considering that we're not going to a Michelin-starred restaurant, but to a place where — spoiler alert — the tablecloths are probably paper.

But this is Aurora's night. And although infuriating Mom is, in fact, my sport, I'll avoid ruining everything with yet another argument.

I snort again, louder this time, and go back to my room.

I change quickly: the skirt slips over my legs, the tight-fitting shirt clings to my body, the black ankle boots make a sharp click on the parquet floor.

I gather my hair into a quick bun, secured with a hairpin that pricks my scalp.

When I return to the living room, Mom looks me up and down. Slowly.

Her lips curl slightly, as if even admitting vague approval costs her physical effort.

«Better than nothing. Come on, let's go.»

Aurora gives me an apologetic look, but I play it down with a tongue-out gesture.

Dad, on the other hand, takes me by the elbow. «Forget her, she can't understand the refined style of us mountain people,» he says with a wink. «Anyway, you're beautiful. You always are.»

I wrinkle my nose in embarrassment and he gives me a gentle nudge with his hip. We grab our jackets and head out.

The evening goes better than I had imagined.

No diplomatic crises, no out-of-control passive-aggressive comments: almost a historic event, by our standards.

The table is simple but carefully set: a white tablecloth, chipped plates that look almost elegant in the warm light of the restaurant.

We laugh and tease each other without malice.

Dad tells an old anecdote, Aurora blushes, and Mom rolls her eyes, pretending to be annoyed, but smiling anyway.

We toast to Aurora's future, and the glasses clink lightly.

My glass barely touches Dad's, while Aurora laughs with tears in her eyes.

For a moment, looking at us all smiling together, I really feel like I belong to something whole.

A perfect family. Or at least, the version we like to show the world.

I take that feeling with me to bed, guarding it like something fragile, knowing that it wouldn't take much to break it.

And I fall asleep with a lightness I haven't felt in a long time.