A splashing sound was coming from behind the door. Resin-coloured light streamed from the thin doorway crack. I tiptoed over to peer into the room.
– Don’t you understand? We’ll wake her up if you don’t shut up. – she whispered, holding a knife in her hand.
The pot on the kitchen table was filled to the brim with red jelly. Next to it, on a white elephant-shaped cutting board, were a few strawberries, shattered.
– Do you hear me? Stop it! – she could not calm down. Putting the knife aside and she turned to the man, hidden by the door.
Mom is always like this. She can never go more than a day without a fight.
– I’ve had enough. I am divorcing you. – she wiped her hands on a red striped tea towel, and threw it to the corner.
I could only see her back through the crack. A silhouette with blurry edges.
At the opposite end of the corridor my grandmother appeared.
– Why are you here, darling? – she asked with glossy eyes.
– Mom and Dad are fighting, – I whispered, turning my back on the door.
– Oh, my dear. Come on, let’s get you back to your bed.
As the grandma returned to her bedroom, her husband shut the window.
– How’s she?
– Still sees them fighting. Even though it’s been 40 days since their funeral.
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