Finding You

10. Watching the Battle of Grunwald live action with my own eyes

I always thought my family was normal. Average. That there was nothing special about it. I had a mom, a dad, and a younger brother, and that was all. No grandparents, no aunts, no uncles, no cousins. My father's parents had passed away when I was very young, and I didn't remember them at all. There was no more family from his side. On the other hand, my mom's side of the family was a complete mystery.

No one ever said they were dead, but my mom didn't keep in contact with them for some reason. I never knew why. They were a taboo topic, never brought up, never mentioned. Whenever I tried to ask about them, she always found a way to avoid my questions, redirecting the conversation or suddenly becoming busy with something else. It was as if that part of our family didn't exist, or at least, wasn't supposed to exist in our world.

Growing up, I didn't think much about it. Life was busy, and I had my own concerns. But every now and then, the thought would creep in, a nagging curiosity about where I came from, about the people who were supposed to be part of my life but weren't. Sometimes I'd see my friends with their extended families, big gatherings during holidays, and I'd wonder what it would be like to have that.

As I got older, the curiosity turned into a quiet frustration. Why was this such a secret? What was so wrong that it couldn't even be mentioned? I'd catch fleeting expressions on my mom's face when something reminded her of her past, an old song, a certain smell, but she never shared the thoughts behind those looks. It was as if she carried a burden she couldn't talk about, a part of her life locked away and hidden from the rest of us.

When she died, my question remained unsolved. Aside from our closest family and a few friends, no one else attended her funeral. I had no idea why. Were they that conflicted? Or was there something more to it?

The day of her funeral is etched in my memory. The air was heavy with the scent of flowers, and the overcast sky seemed to mirror our grief. My dad stood stoic, my younger brother clinging to him, eyes red from crying. I scanned the small crowd, hoping to see a face I didn't recognize, someone who might hold a piece of the puzzle. But there was no one. Just the familiar faces of people I knew from our neighborhood, offering their condolences with sympathetic glances and hushed voices.

After the service, as people slowly trickled away, I approached my dad. I had to know, I had to ask. But when I looked into his eyes, I saw a reflection of my own confusion and pain. He shook his head slightly, a silent plea for me to let it go. It wasn't the right time, and maybe it never would be.

But I had to ask again. Maybe not specifically about mom's family, but at least about our roots. There were things that confused me.

For example, how were we so wealthy? My father was a doctor, a good one. He was a neurosurgeon, one of the highest paying medical specialties. But still, our fortune seemed larger than what he could have saved over the years.

Before, I never truly grasped how rich we were. We lived normally, like an average American family, but with no struggles. We never lacked anything, but we were humble. Just after Angie moved in with us, I realized we were far from normal. We started going on vacations all around Europe, renovating our house, buying more things than necessary. 

It was like a switch had been flipped. Suddenly, our lifestyle was luxurious. We had a maid, a chef, and even a gardener. Angie brought a new level of sophistication to our home, making it feel more like a mansion than a family house. Then, Lucas attempted suicide, and we all decided to leave everything behind, just like that, as if it didn't matter, as if we hadn't wasted all that money.

I didn't mind moving away, especially for my brother's sake, but I was surprised at how easily father and Angie discarded everything. The drastic change in our lives felt surreal, like we were abandoning not just a place but a part of ourselves. The ease with which they left it all behind was unsettling to me.