1944 (coffee)

Have you told your parents?

No.

Kathrin took a sip of coffee. Mary rimmed her cup with her finger looking into the rising steam.

I don't want to bore you.

I didn't ask.

You see, they never wanted me to be a nurse. Not a respectable endeavor for a young lady. Beneath my dignity, which really meant beneath theirs. My father is an investment banker. Member of the community. Works hard, late hours. Something I never understood considering what time banks close. My mother is a woman of society. She lives, eats, breathes social connection, like a flower needing sunshine and rain. I often have this horrible thought in my head of her wilting if she can't host or attend the next party. For my mother, not so much my father, but for her, appearances are reality. When I told her I wanted to be a nurse, the look on her face. You would have thought I was running away from home to join the circus. All she could say was wait till your father gets home. As if I didn't have the authority. So I waited in my room. Father was late, as usual. And with each passing hour, I came to hate my mother more and more.

Kathrin took another cup of coffee. She gave no feedback. Mary continued.

It wasn't that she didn't want me to be a nurse. I understood that. What I didn't understand, although I should have because it had been this way all my life, is how she let me sit in my room for hours, alone. Not once did she come and sit with me, not once did she ask why. Never. Not even afterward. Instead, I listened to her giving orders to the staff, bustling around downstairs. You see, she had a party to prepare for. I was planning my life. She was planning for a party. I'm boring you.

No. This is inside of you. Let it out.

To make a long story short, the day I was to leave, neither my mother nor my father came to see me off. I left on a Saturday. My father was still in bed. My mother busy with the next whatever. The atmosphere was suffocating. Felt as if they were yelling at me with their silence. This is how they sent me to war.

When is the last time you talked?

We don't. Just letters. Letters that say nothing. They still think of me as the little girl that disobeyed them, disregarded their wishes, ignored their wisdom, made a mistake. Every letter has the scent of I'm not going to tell you I told you so. Part of the problem is, that little girl no longer exists. They have no idea of what is happening here. No idea what I have seen, experienced, done. How I have changed. Who I am.

This war is not going to last forever.

I know.