Actually, I don't want to know

I wake up to a sound that doesn't belong here. Muffled, yet urgent. Irregular, with long pauses.

I lie still for a while, listening, trying to place it. Without success.

Barefoot, I tiptoe down the hallway. The door to the living room is ajar. A faint glimmer of light shines through the crack. Now I can make out quiet voices. They sound familiar—and yet wrong.

I push the door open wide enough to see through it. I basically knew what I would find. And yet it's a shock when my suspicion becomes certainty.

Dirk. And my mother.

What I see is not a chance encounter, not an innocent conversation. They are too close for that, their movements too unambiguous. My first impulse is to rush in and yell at them. I don't.

Instead, I lean silently against the doorframe. I watch. I listen. Not greedily. Not voyeuristically. But with a strange mixture of realization and defensiveness. I perceive without consciously processing. I don't think, I feel. Heat covers my face, an unpleasant pulling sensation spreads in my stomach. Not from excitement – but from being overwhelmed. Because suddenly, convictions that were previously unshakeable disappear.

When I used to come home, Mom and Dad were always there. Now doubts arise. Do they still love each other? Will they break up?

It's gnawing at me. Questions keep popping up that I can't answer. Since when? Why? And above all: What does this mean for me? How will this affect my relationship with my mother? Should I stop her from doing something stupid, or should I support her in finding happiness?

As I withdraw, cautiously, secretly, step by step, it feels like I'm getting deeper and deeper into a dilemma. I'm no longer just her daughter. I'm an observer. A confidante. An accomplice.