Unconditional trust

On my way home, my thoughts kept wandering. The rhythmic sway of the train, the fairytale-like snow-covered landscape, the magnificent fir trees bowing under the weight of the snow—somehow the entire frozen scene drew me closer. I often feel this in winter. I always joke that my favourite winter sport is shovelling snow. That's why I noticed the two women in the café window, battling the snow themselves.

Because of the blizzards, I had to wait a long time for my train, and no one could even tell me whether it would arrive. So I nestled into the small café next to the station. Its atmosphere was like stepping back into another era. It wasn't really a café; it was more of an absurd blend of restaurant, bar, and cozy coffeehouse. In the center of the room, a massive, human-sized fireplace crackled with fire, above which a pot of thick soup bubbled for the frozen guests, while in front, a huge Norwegian forest cat slept the sleep of the just. Along one wall stood an old-looking carved wooden bar with a bow-tied bartender, who had a kind, understanding word for everyone as he polished glasses between serving drinks.

Here, the goal wasn't to cram in as many tables and seats as possible, but to make whatever fit as comfortable as possible. The enormous, deep armchairs sank invitingly, luring the irresponsible stranger who dared sit. Tiny tables showed off countless knickknacks to the guests, putting on a little show, creating the feeling of being at a country grandmother's house, where there's always one more cake and another cup of tea. Only here, it wasn't grandma bustling around, but an invisible army of waiters. Every time I reached for my cup, it was already full; someone had refilled it again and again. Even the tea tasted like what my dear grandmother used to make. God bless her.

In this euphoric mood, I noticed across the street the two women engaged in the operation of freeing a car. I wondered who would win: them or Mother Hulda and the snow. To their credit, they shoveled tirelessly, trying to rescue the car from its snowy captivity, while children played around them with genuine, carefree smiles. Eventually, of course, they decided to switch to a more suitable mode of transport, and out came, from somewhere, two sizable sleds with fur covers. I watched the children with envy as they were pulled along. Little did I know then that I would witness how two mothers, from opposite corners of the world, could forge such a close and unbreakable bond. Watching them, it seemed that everything else—work, career, all the things we usually consider important—was pushed aside. What mattered far more were those three beautiful, brave, lively children beside them. Without fathers. I only realized this later, when they finally gave up their fight against the cold, gathered the tiny, frost-bitten, exhausted children, and sat down on the large couches next to me.

Of course, even the arrival of such a group is quite an adventure for me. The children looked like little plump Eskimos under all their layers, while the mothers somehow managed to keep the chaos under control: putting away the sleds, de-snowing the little Eskimos, and herding them in order to the chosen couch ensemble beside me. Good choice, I thought. Two completely different chairs in style and color, absolutely mismatched, sharing only one thing: they were incredibly comfortable. And that was enough. Then began the unpacking for the children: hats, scarves, gloves—first round. So far, so good, no big adventure. Overalls and boots next; here it got trickier, as they had to strip these layers off the children without letting the two kilos of stored snow fall onto the café's colourful, cozy, plush carpet, all while the children began to squirm. Finally, the extra layers—sweater and pants, socks—were checked, and though it sounded simple, by now the children's attention had shifted to the knickknacks mentioned earlier, and with a "just looking" shout, they were already grabbing them.

It was now clear that the little Eskimo team consisted of two girls of roughly the same age and a slightly younger boy. The girls could not have been more different: one with pale blonde hair, the other nearly black; their eyes green and brown; one smaller and thinner, the other taller and sturdier. Complete opposites. Yet even from the depth of my armchair, I could see that they were best friends. The three little ones wandered across the couch while the mothers undressed themselves and ordered cakes, hot chocolate, and espresso.

I glanced at my phone—still no news of my train. Looking out the window again, I saw the snow had begun falling in huge flakes. This is the kind of snowfall where five to ten centimetres can accumulate in mere minutes. Magical. People who haven't forgotten how to experience a moment like this surely pause for a while, just watching the snow. At least, that's what I hope. My reverie was broken by one of the mothers' slightly louder question:

"How long?"
"Forever," came the reply.

Anna, the blonde, sturdier mother, just looked at her friend, incredulous, unsure whether to be relieved or worried, until Mary, the slimmer, brown-haired mother, almost the same age as Anna, perhaps a few years younger, smiled.

"I'm happy, finally relieved," she reassured her friend.

The two women came from different countries, and eventually found home in the same place. Each had arrived for different reasons: Mary almost still a child herself, nearly twenty years ago; Anna, as a grown woman, just about a year ago. They didn't speak each other's language, mixing English with the local language, which Anna barely understood but was diligently learning. And this small detail never hindered them from forming a true friendship and the trust that existed between them. Anna had long known the painfully difficult feeling of being a single parent, entirely alone, though Mary had not been completely unacquainted with it before she ended up on her own. That is, up to now.

At six o'clock in the morning, the alarm rang at Mary's, which, given the Christmas break, was hardly friendly, but the children had to be woken. The father decided to leave. He claimed he needed rest and a break, burned out by the two children, his overthinking wife, and working from home. When Mary heard this, she couldn't tell if her husband was playing a cruel joke or really meant it. Their marriage had not been strong or harmonious—it might have been—but since they were very different, with very different values, it lacked the perseverance a good marriage requires. Mary soon revealed to me that she liked to anticipate everything, taking notes, planning, making lists. Perhaps that's why she was caught off guard when her husband suddenly asked for time. She seemed like a simple woman in the kind, non-pejorative sense: organized, planning, perhaps overextending herself. By upbringing, she rarely asks for help, only accepting it if offered voluntarily. Anna had done this for her several times, listening as her friend began recounting.

After confirming that her husband seriously wanted time away from married and family life—specifically three months off—Mary decided not to hold him back. She told him to go, but then forever. It was fascinating to hear their conversation: though I shouldn't have eavesdropped, there was something intangible in the aura and expressions of these two women that I could not comprehend, perhaps because I am not a mother, or because I am much younger. I don't know.

Finally, the husband packed his suitcase this morning, kissed the little rascals on their heads, hugged them, and hurried off. The proverb says the train waits for no one. After breakfast, Mary ran to her friend's house. She vented her anger on the snow with her shovel, and having sufficiently tired her body, she could finally pour out her soul. Anna understood well what was coming: a hard yet lighter period, more physical burden, less emotional. And she knew this exchange was a good one. They talked about work, school, plans, the future. Being a single parent is a huge challenge, because everything—truly everything—falls on the one parent: bringing and fetching the children, carrying things, remembering everything, raising, encouraging, managing the household, maintaining it, fixing the car, or, as now, digging it out of the snow. And I think I saw it in them, this boundless, inexhaustible strength and perseverance. For their children, everything. When a woman gives life to her child, she tears her body, and what is less visible, her heart too, because she gives a piece of herself to her child. There is something here that transcends everything that could be rationally explained. It is like a promise that cannot be withdrawn. This is a mother's timeless bond with her child, a link that prompts mothers, because of this chain of love, not to ask for a break. No matter how overworked, tired, or exhausted, a conspiratorial little smile from that tiny Eskimo melts the maternal heart.

Here I understood the true meaning of unconditional trust: not whether your partner cheats, or whether your friend tells your secret to someone else. No, nothing compares to the trust when a mother entrusts her child to someone else because she has to work to make a living. No husband, no grandparent nearby—they stayed in the old country, or, as in the earlier case, went on vacation. You can only rely on yourself, or, if lucky, you have a fellow mother like this, who helps your children in every way, and if necessary, would protect them without fearing for her own safety. At this point, Mary began to cry, either from shock or relief. Yet her face was serene, and she smiled. Everything will be fine, whispered Anna, then engaged the children while her friend experienced the moment. She was not alone. And that knowledge is something to be grateful for.

At this point, I began observing Anna. She also seemed loving, but there was a hardness in her, a kind of armor she had built over the years to protect herself from feeling too much, opening too widely, loving too freely. I am sure she does feel; she simply chooses to open her heart to a moving film, a good book, or the wonders of nature and the world. People, like the waiters, are treated kindly, with smiles of gratitude for delivered drinks and cakes, yet she closes off the possibility of conversation almost immediately. If addressed, she responds briefly, politely; no openness, no more curiosity than etiquette demands. This is no coincidence. I have seen this behavior in women before, especially mothers. Divorced women sometimes behave this way after a painful divorce, because they simply no longer believed in it. They are the ones who must be won over anew. For them, a few kind words or the overly direct, sometimes clumsy approaches common today are not enough. Will Mary be such a woman after their divorce? Who can say?

The little group was finally interrupted for me by the ping of my phone, tactlessly announcing that my train would arrive in ten minutes. I lazily rose from the deep armchair and dressed in layers, as if I could armor myself against the freezing cold. Stepping outside the café, I was once again enchanted by the enormous flakes falling. One snowflake rested briefly on my eyelash, then melted and drifted away. Looking back through the window, I saw the children joyfully nibbling, the mothers sipping their coffee, chatting cheerfully. I silently wished them even more strength and perseverance, if that were possible. I could only hope that one day I would meet these two open-hearted women again and learn the next chapter of their story. Before hurrying toward the small town's train station, I whispered to the wind: may you be very happy in life.