Amber and Nathalies world

“You know what’s going on,” Mario said to us hurriedly as he tied up the hastily packed bag and was about to storm out of the bedroom door. Just a few minutes earlier, he had rushed in, pulled open the closet doors, pulled a bag onto the floor and hastily thrown a few items of clothing into it. Then he had disappeared into the bathroom for a moment and returned with a wash bag, which he stuffed into the larger bag. He threw us another hasty kiss - and disappeared.

Oh - we knew exactly what was “going on”. I held my breath and didn’t say a word until Mario pulled the door shut behind him. Tears were building up and burning to finally break free. I tried with all my might to remain steadfast. Then the door slammed shut, Mario was gone - and I turned to Amber. Her look expressed what I was feeling. Then there was no stopping me. Tears streamed down my cheeks - and Amber felt the same. For a moment, I was unable to move. Then I went up to her, took her in my arms - and we cried together. I wanted to shout after him: “Let me come with you.” I would have loved to hold him in my arms, squeeze his hand and stand by him in silence. But I knew that I couldn’t have been with him at that moment - as much as I would have liked to. My job now was to stay behind with Amber and stay strong. And even though my heart fought against all composure, I understood that our love now had to exist in silence and trust.

Yes, we both knew what had happened.

Mario’s look had changed weeks before. His eyes had become emptier, sadder. He often sat quietly on the couch with us, hardly speaking a word, and when he did, his voice sounded tired. He had told us that his father had been admitted to hospital. The diagnosis: liver cancer. Terminal stage. Mario had said it calmly, almost mechanically. But his eyes… they spoke volumes.

“He’s going to die,” he had said. And then he had gone quiet.

Mario was often not there at weekends. We knew he was with his family - there, with his father, as often as he could. Amber and I stayed behind, silent, still, thinking about him and his sister. During this time, we realized for the first time that Mario had a family. A family of people. And people… they die.

During the days he was with us, he often lay between us, pulled us both very close to him, said nothing, closed his eyes, breathed deeply - and just held us.It was as if he wanted to feel that he wasn’t alone.

Now, as I write these lines, a few weeks have passed since the moment Mario rushed out of the door.And now, as I write these lines, it is an evening when we both - Amber and I - felt it: something was different tonight. Mario was calm, but no longer dejected.It was more of a quiet determination that surrounded him.He took us into the dressing room and helped us into beautiful traditional dresses.Dresses we hadn’t seen before.He dressed Amber in a rose-colored dress with white embroidery and me in a darker one with delicate pink and black patterns.We also got matching shoes.Then he combed our hair with an intensity like never before.He asked us not to ask any questions.Not yet.Later, he said, he would explain everything. Then he put a beautiful necklace on both of us - a pendant in the shape of an edelweiss flower hanging from a pink cord chain. He disappeared into the kitchen. We heard him chopping, sizzling and opening cupboards. The smell of mushrooms and roasted meat filled the house. Then he invited us to the table. As we took our seats, he placed three plates in front of us. “Russian-style schnitzel,” he said.“A dish my father always cooked in the fall when the mushrooms were fresh from the forest.”

He sat down, looked at us in silence for a moment before continuing.

“I always said: as long as my father is alive, I will never cook this dish.It was his dish.He was the only one who prepared it this way.But today…”Mario faltered.I realized: I had never seen him cry before. After a moment, he continued in a broken voice: “…Today I’m cooking it in his memory. And I don’t want to eat it alone.I want you with me - because you are part of my life.”

Tears ran down my cheek.I was unable to move and look at Amber.But I sensed that she felt the same way.

Mario handed Amber and me each a red rose.He also gave me a western tie - and Amber an old sheriff’s star. Mario looked at us and smiled faintly. “These are memories. This sheriff’s star and this tie - they mean more to me than you can imagine. I put them on my father for a photo shoot. I wanted him to look like a cowboy - a sheriff, a country musician, a macho man.” He laughed softly, then his gaze softened. “He was skeptical at first. And then he had fun with it. Really a lot of fun. The picture hanging in my office - I’m sure you’ve seen it - was taken during this shoot.” At that moment, I tightened my grip on the western tie in my hand. It meant so much to Mario - it was a memory of his father for him. And he placed it in my hands. His memory… His love - in my hand. I clutched the tie - along with the rose - tightly to my chest.

Then we sat down at the dining table.

We ate together. And while we ate, Mario talked about the funeral.

It had been a warm, sunny day. The candles flickered in the chapel. Mario had written the eulogy himself and had chosen the music together with his sister. The flames of the candles moved in time with the melody, as if to say: we are not mourning death - we are celebrating life lived. He recounted how his mother and sister listened to the speech with tear-filled eyes. How the music filled the silence when words were no longer enough. How everyone thought of his father together - not of the end, but of the love that remained.

I remembered how he withdrew one evening. Without explanation, without words - just a glass of red wine in his hand. And how he then closed the door behind him. He wrote this speech that evening. That evening, he held me particularly tightly in his arms as he fell asleep.

When we had finished eating, we helped him hang up the sheriff’s star and western tie in the office next to the picture. The moment was quiet, almost reverent. I looked at Mario. “If you’re his son… as much as I love you… then what an overwhelming man your dad must have been to create you?” I put my hand on the picture. “I love him more than anything, even though I never got to meet him. But if he meant so much to you - then he means twice as much to me.” Mario was silent for a moment. Then he took us both in his arms.

“I told my mother about you,” he whispered. “Unfortunately, I haven’t told my father. But I know that he would have loved you. Simply because he would have known: my boy is not alone.”