Little things I’d never paid attention to before came to mind. A few months ago, Alena had also come to stay for the weekend, and Nina had noticed then that she’d become far too pale. I’d waved it off: studies, lack of sleep, exams. Then there’d been a phone call from the hall of residence. After the call, Nina looked worried, but she only said that Alena was too withdrawn, hardly speaking to anyone. And I brushed it off again: her personality, her age, adjusting to life there.
Her personality…
And then I remembered her as a little girl. How she used to run down the corridor shouting: ‘Daddy, look!’ — pointing out a beetle, then the first snow, then a puddle reflecting the sky. I remembered how, as a child, she used to draw trains, how she would see me off to work, how she would wait by the window.
And then one day she stopped.
She stopped calling out to me. She stopped sharing. She stopped waiting.
And instead of being alarmed, I decided that this was growing up. That this was how it was meant to be. That a child simply becomes independent. To be honest, I even felt a sense of relief. After work, I wanted silence, peace, without unnecessary chatter. But it turns out she hadn’t outgrown her need for me — she’d simply stopped believing that I’d notice.
I was sitting on the floor, unable to tear my eyes away from the photograph. I leaned in even closer and saw, higher up near her elbow, an old, almost white scar. It was very old. And something inside me tightened.
How many times had she been in such pain that she chose this kind of suffering—physical pain? How many times had she been left alone with it? And all the while, I’d been living my proper adult life: work, a nap after my shift, kitchen chats about everyday trifles, prices, the weather, tiredness.
An hour later, Nina rushed home. I heard her hurrying up the stairs. She burst into the flat, looked first at me, then at the door to Alena’s room. We stood silently in the hallway. Then Nina hugged me and burst into tears against my chest. I stroked her hair and thought that she, it seemed, had been feeling anxious all this time. But I hadn’t.
We didn’t wake Alena. Nina put her favourite soup with meatballs on to cook. I went to the shop and bought a large bag of mandarins — she’d always loved them. I also bought a simple chequered notebook and a pen.
In the evening, Alena came out of her room. She sat down at the table. Nina silently placed a bowl of soup in front of her. I pushed the mandarins towards her. She looked at them and smiled ever so slightly.
‘Is this for me?’ she asked.
‘For you,’ I replied.
And then I said what I probably should have said a long time ago:
‘Alena… you can tell us anything. Really. We can handle it. We’re here for you.’
She looked at me for a long time, as if trying to work out whether she could believe those words. There was so much in her gaze—fear, doubt, weariness, hope. I’d always understood traffic lights perfectly well: red, amber, green. But in my own daughter’s eyes, I’d forgotten how to read them.
And then it finally dawned on me: I had long since missed her red light. Missed it — and carried on living as if the way forward were still clear.
Nina gently took Alena by the hand, the very one beneath the long sleeve. Her daughter flinched and tried to pull her hand away, but Nina didn’t let go.
‘My daughter,’ she said quietly, ‘I will always love you. No matter what. Even if you’re silent. Even if you’re in pain. Even if you can’t find the words.’
And Alena began to cry.
Not beautifully, not quietly, not like in the films. She cried the way people cry for real — heavily, heart-wrenchingly, with trembling, with ragged breaths. We both hugged her, and I could feel them both shaking. And I thought of only one thing: how many more trains I could still run along the tracks, how many more kilometres I could still travel. But I have only one daughter. And I almost lost her, without even realising it.
Then we drank tea. Alena ate mandarins — one after another. Nina smiled through her tears. And I just sat there watching them, trying to commit every detail of that evening to memory.
I didn’t sleep that night. I sat in the kitchen, drinking cold tea and staring at the closed door of her room the whole time. A notebook and a pen lay nearby. On the first page, I wrote:
‘Alena. I’m not good at putting the most important things into words. I’ve spent my whole life driving trains and understand tracks better than words. But if there ever comes a time when it’s easier for you to write than to speak—write here. I’ll make sure to read it. I promise. Dad.’
In the morning she found this notebook. I saw her open it, read it, run her fingers along the lines. Then she looked up at me. And for the first time in a long time, she smiled genuinely.
She didn’t write anything then. She just took the notebook back to her room with her.
On Monday, I drove her to the hall of residence myself. We were silent for almost the entire journey. Just as we reached the entrance, she suddenly turned and said quietly:
— Dad, thank you.
I didn’t even realise straight away what exactly she was thanking me for. But I didn’t ask.
A few days later, I noticed the notebook lying on the bedside table at home. She’d left it there before she left. I opened the last page.
There were just two lines, written in her handwriting — already grown-up, but still seeming to tremble slightly:
‘Dad, I thought you and Mum wouldn’t notice. Thank you for noticing.’
I sat there for a long time, holding that notebook in my hands. These hands remembered the weight of the levers, the vibration of the cab, the long journeys. And in that moment, I realised one simple thing: there are signs that cannot be seen from afar. You have to look at them directly. Not look away. Not pretend that everything is fine.
Since then, I haven’t looked away.