The Good Mother 1988

The forest, bathed in soft sunlight, looked like an artist's canvas come to life. Voices could be heard among the trees, covered in emerald foliage - the ringing laughter of a child and the calm, measured baritone of an adult.

Mark Tempe, a 40-year-old professor of piano at Boston University, was dressed elegantly in a white shirt and vest, his style refined, and his light-colored hat added a touch of old-fashioned sophistication. His blond, curly hair peeked out from under the brim of his hat, and his pince-nez perched on the bridge of his nose gave him an air of intelligence.

Walking alongside him was his six-year-old daughter, Molly Dunlop, dressed in a white short-sleeved shirt decorated with bright red stripes. Her long black hair, braided loosely, swayed slightly as she ran from flower to flower, pointing excitedly at the butterflies that seemed to be circling her on purpose.

"Look, Daddy!" Molly cried, kneeling down in front of a bush covered with tiny white flowers. "Her wings are so shiny, it's like she's from a fairy tale!"

Mark smiled as he sat down next to his daughter.

"That's Clymene the Lemongrass, my dear," he explained, gently touching his pince-nez. "An amazing creation of nature. See how her wings reflect the sunlight? It seems as if she's glowing."

Molly nodded enthusiastically, her eyes shining with joy.

"Why are butterflies so beautiful, dad?"

Mark thought for a moment, then smiled and replied:

"Perhaps to remind us that there is always beauty around us, even in the most ordinary things. We just need to learn to see it."

Molly froze, looking at her father as if trying to take in the full depth of his words. Mark suddenly jumped to his feet, catching his eye on a bright butterfly that had fluttered from a flower and was slowly floating in the air, its wings flickering, reflecting the sun's rays.

"Now, Molly, watch closely!" he said cheerfully, snatching up a small net from his hand. "Let's see if I can keep up with her!"

He took a few quick steps forward and then ran, trying to catch the light, barely perceptible creature.

Molly laughed, clapped her hands, and ran after her father.

"Daddy, wait for me!" she screamed, her voice echoing through the trees.

A light wind ruffled her black hair as she ran, laughing, after her father, who galloped ahead, swinging his net vigorously. Tree branches flashed overhead, their green changing to bright light as they ran out of the forest into an open clearing.

The field in front of them was covered with dandelions, their yellow heads like hundreds of little suns, dappled on the green grass. The wind blowing from the hill bent the stems, raising the light scent of the flowers into the air.

"Wow!" Molly exclaimed, stopping for a moment. Her eyes widened and she immediately ran on, circling between the dandelions.

In the distance, beyond the field, a small wooden cottage with a veranda and carved shutters was visible. It looked cozy and peaceful, with smoke lazily flowing from the chimney.

"Mom's house," Molly said quietly, looking at the cottage.

Mark stopped, looked in the same direction, and lowered his net. His face became serious for a moment, but then he smiled at his daughter, trying to preserve her joy.

"Yes, my dear," he said, adjusting his hat slightly. "Almost there. But first, maybe we should catch another butterfly?"

Molly nodded happily and ran to her father, and suddenly the silence was cut by the sharp, air-piercing sound of a police siren. Molly froze, her cheerful gaze became wary.

"Daddy, what is this?" she asked fearfully, clinging to his arms.

Mark felt his heart tighten. He knew that sound. He knew what it meant. His face darkened, and a shadow of something unpleasant passed over his eyes. He leaned over to look at his daughter and, trying to remain calm, said:

"Don't worry, Molly. Everything will be okay. Just stay close to me."

They approached a house where a group of gendarmes stood. The men in white jackets with stern faces stood motionless and talked tensely. Mark froze for a moment, not knowing what to do, and his gaze slid over the faces of the gendarmes, trying to understand what was happening. Suddenly, from the veranda of the house, a whisper reached his ears, barely audible, but distinct. Mark listened. He recognized the voice of missis Karen York, who had come that afternoon to have tea at the house of his ex-wife Harey.

"No, well, look - they arrested the owner, but didn't even look at her ex," she whispered with noticeable bewilderment in her voice. "How is that possible?"

Her maid, Jo Thueson, replied with a mixture of sarcasm and calm:

"No wonder. After the divorce, Harey took back her maiden name, and at the same time updated her daughter's documents. She understood perfectly well that she and Molly did not need a connection with this pianist!"

As if in response to their words, Mark saw two gendarmes emerge from the house, escorting Harey Dunlop, his ex-wife. Her hands were cuffed and her steps were heavy, as if her entire life had fallen on her shoulders. Harey held her head high, but her face was hidden behind an expression of anxiety and confusion.

Mark stood frozen, his heart beating fast, unable to move. Molly, holding his hand, also stood in shock, not understanding what was happening. The gendarmes walked past, ignoring their presence, and Harey Dunlop was loaded into the van. Her eyes briefly met Mark's, but she said nothing.

"What a scoundrel this Tempe is!" Karen's voice continued from the veranda, sounding almost with hatred. "He left the manuscript of his treatise with his ex, in which he spoke out against democracy, and missis Dunlop, who was not guilty of anything, was arrested, and all because of the frivolity of this butterfly-catcher in front of her house! He probably still hasn't realized what he did!"

Mark almost ran over to them and asked missis York how she could be so sure she was right, but his body was as dumb as his mind. He knew that this talk was idle gossip. He knew that no one would dare see the truth until they unraveled the whole situation. At this point, Karen, ignoring the silence of her maid Jo, continued in a more casual, almost indifferent voice:

"I can't even imagine how Molly will suffer. Poor little thing - only six years old, and her life is already ruined. How much she will grieve for her mother!" she said, as if she were simply describing someone's unhappy fate, having nothing to do with it.

"Don't worry," Jo Thueson replied, with a noticeable chill in her voice. "Molly won't worry too much. She'll be staying with her dad, and he'll always be a comfort."

Jo said this with a slight sarcasm that immediately put Mark on his guard. He knew that the maid had never been friendly. However, Karen disagreed. Her answer sounded like the end of the discussion, as if she were stating an indisputable truth:

"No, Jo, you don't understand! With her mother, she grew up in nature, in space and freedom. And what can her father offer her? A stuffy apartment in the center of Boston? Where will he find her nature there, provide her with freedom? She lost the closest person she knew, and what is she supposed to do now - live in some concrete coffin with a careless pianist who doesn't care about a child's soul?"

The words hit Mark like a bolt of lightning. He froze, his thoughts locked in a vicious circle. What could he really offer his daughter? He had always been consumed by his work, his career, and now this new reality, which went against all his ideas about how life should be, confronted him with horror. Yes, he lived in Boston, in the center of the city, in a small apartment where there was not even a green corner, let alone nature. And now he had to be the one to take care of Molly, not knowing how to provide her with what she really needed.

Mark hung his head, feeling his world shrinking. And Karen York, who was sitting on the porch at the time, rocking in a rocking chair, enjoying the view of the forest, continued to gossip with her maid, not paying attention to the fact that her words were beginning to sound like old, worn-out records.

"Of course, Harey Dunlop wouldn't be in this situation if it weren't for her absent-minded ex!" Karen said, shifting in her chair with a look of annoyance on her face. "He was always so thoughtless. He left her his little scribbles full of attacks on the ruling class, and now the poor thing is sitting behind bars, and whose fault is it? Him, it's his fault for setting her up because of his disagreement with democracy!"

Her voice was full of confidence, and her lips were pressed together in anticipation of how she would expose yet another "untruth." But Jo Thueson, who was sitting next to her, finally couldn't stand it and intervened.

"Missis York," she said quietly, "you talk of things you know nothing about. mister Tempe is a saint, believe me. He could do no wrong."

Karen, hearing this, immediately frowned. Her eyes flashed, and she turned sharply to the maid, as if the full wrath of her disappointment had fallen on her.

"What are you doing, Jo?" she snapped, not hiding her irritation. "You're telling me what to say?! You, a servant, are going to teach me?! He - this pianist - is a "saint"? Do you think I don't know who I'm talking about? Don't you dare argue with me!"

Jo backed away slightly, not expecting that reaction. Her hands clenched into fists, but she tried to remain calm.

"I just..." she began, but Karen interrupted her.

"Exactly, simple! And nothing more! Where did you even come from, that you try to explain anything to me? You're always on his side, on the side of that heartless, cold professor!" Karen jumped up from her chair and, not hiding her rage, walked along the veranda, as if trying to find something that could satisfy her indignation. "And me? I see what he did to Harey, to her life and the life of her daughter. And this is the result..."

Her words echoed across the empty veranda, but Jo, standing silently to one side, merely nodded and said nothing more. Missis York hardly expected her words to be answered.

Mark Tempe still stood there, as if rooted to the ground. His thoughts were confused and disorganized, when he finally realized that he could no longer hear his daughter breathing next to him. He looked around, but she was not there. Panic seized him, and he jumped up abruptly. Without any caution, he ran toward the clearing where he had recently run with Molly, and at that moment he saw her figure walking slowly among the dandelions. The girl walked without hurrying, her small back was hunched, and her head was drooping, like a person tired of long and endless solitude.

Mark slowed his steps, trying to approach unnoticed, but when he called out to her, she didn't turn around right away. He called her several times, his voice full of worry, his heart racing. When Molly finally stopped, he hurried over to her.

"Molly, wait!" he said, breathing heavily, but the girl did not turn around, but simply said, without moving from her place:

"Yes, I'm listening."

Mark, feeling the coldness emanating from her words, came closer and, trying to find an approach, spoke in an apologetic tone:

"Molly, I want you... I want you to live with me. We'll be together, and you won't be alone."

But the girl, without changing her cold expression, remained silent for a few seconds, and then firmly answered:

"No."

"Why?" he asked, amazed by her determination, but there was only desperation in his voice, mixed with a desire to understand.

She turned slowly, looking at him with her huge eyes. There was no warmth in her gaze. She said, and there was no room for pity or regret in her words:

"They don't answer such questions."

Mark, standing in front of her, felt his world crumble. He took a step forward, but his voice barely reached her ears.

"Molly, please... Answer me, why? I... I can't live without you."

The girl did not move, but her gaze, full of hatred, pierced his soul, and she finally turned around and said with icy clarity:

"You are not my father."

Mark was dumbfounded. How to answer this? He stood there, unable to move, and the words that came out of his mouth were more an automatic response than a real answer.

"Thank you... for this," he said quietly, not knowing what else to say.

Mark stood before Molly, his heart clenching in pain as he looked at her face, slashed with hatred. Her eyes showed no fear, no doubt, only icy detachment. It was more terrifying than anything he had ever experienced. He felt her coldness consuming him from the inside, like an emptiness he was powerless to approach.

With desperation in his voice, he broke the silence:

"Molly... say something. Please, say something that will hurt. I... I can't watch you do this, the way you look at me. You need to be close to me, but not like this. Not so cold. I... I want you to show me how you feel."

The girl stood motionless, her gaze fixed on him, her small lips pressed into a thin line, but when she heard his words, she suddenly began to scream. This scream was not just indignation, it was a real cry from the soul, and it echoed in his mind, breaking the silence of the forest.

"Mom's going to prison!" Molly screamed, her voice filled with rage and fear. "And you... don't you understand?! You, you..."

She hesitated, as if she herself did not know what words to choose to express her pain. Mark fell to his knees, his eyes full of despair, and he hurried to justify himself.

"I didn't know," he whispered, his voice breaking with tension. "On my rare visits to Harey..." He paused. "Molly... Your mother never told me anything. I didn't know what was going on between you, I didn't know..."

Molly screamed again, her face contorted with rage, the words escaping like searing arrows.

"So Mom didn't trust you!" Her voice was furious and contemptuous. "She didn't want a weakling like you getting involved in her problems! You couldn't even understand what was happening to her! All you did was play that damn piano of yours! Do you think music will solve everything? You're nothing!"

Molly didn't give him a chance to answer. She looked at him with an expression as if she saw not a man in front of her, but something repulsive. And without finishing, wiping away tears, she turned and walked forward across the clearing, leaving him standing there in complete stupor.

Mark froze, unable to move. His mind was spinning in a circle of pain, the realization of his helplessness and inability to understand himself. He did not know what to do with what he had just heard. He only continued to look at Molly, who was already walking, without looking back, across the clearing until her small figure finally dissolved among the tall dandelions. At that moment, when everything he knew about life was in ruins, his heart sank with pain.

Unable to contain himself, he turned abruptly and ran back to the house. His steps were uncertain but swift. It was as if he hoped that if he went back, everything would change. But he knew that it wouldn't. He couldn't turn back time, he couldn't change his mistake. He wasn't the father he wanted to be.

As he raced toward the house, his eyes accidentally met those of Karen York and Jo Thueson, who were sitting on the porch. They were still in their chairs, but now their eyes were fixed on him. There was no pity in their gaze, no sympathy-only surprise. They said nothing, as if silence were the only answer to his desperate flight.

Mark, not looking at missis York and her maid Jo, continued to move forward. He felt their eyes resting heavily on his back, but he was too absorbed in his own condition to pay attention to such trifles as the bewilderment of the two ladies. His steps became quick and uncertain, and he headed for the corner of the veranda, where there was a glass slab with butterflies - a collection he had once collected with Molly when he visited her and her mother, his ex-wife Harey Dunlop. It was a common hobby, a shared pastime that became part of the small, beautiful world that he and his daughter were creating.

As he approached, he didn't immediately notice how his hands began to shake. Everything inside him twisted into pain, and, unable to contain his emotions any longer, he grabbed the slab in anger and dropped it hard on the floor. The glass shattered loudly, and the many butterflies that had once been carefully collected now scattered across the wooden floor, their dust-covered wings scattering around. At that moment, as if the world itself had reacted to his pain, Karen and Jo cried out in surprise and fear, recoiling from Mark.

But it wasn't only people who were panicking.

A flock of crows croaked out of the trees around the house, their black silhouettes flashing across the sky like harbingers of something dark. Their cries and the noise of their wings merged with the loud ringing of falling glass. It seemed as if nature itself was alarmed, as if in response to the outbreak of madness in his soul.

Mark stood in the chaos, his breathing heavy and his heart pounding in his chest. He looked at the shattered collection as the last symbol of what had once been important. Everything he knew, everything he loved, was now torn apart, and all he could do was stand in this shattered world, not knowing where to go next.