My mother was my grandmother’s fourth child. The first two had died very young, during the war, when even a simple fever could be fatal. After those losses, my grandmother lived with a quiet kind of fear — the fear of losing another child.
So when my mother was born, the youngest, she became the center of her mother’s world.
There were two daughters: my mom and her sister. My grandmother treated them differently. She would hide grapes in the attic for my mom — “because she’s smaller, more delicate.” Or maybe… because she loved her more.
She gave her protection and love, but without realizing it, she also taught her that the world is a dangerous place — that to survive, you must always be alert, cautious, prepared for the worst.
But my mother was brave. She once told me she went on a summer camp trip just a few days after having her appendix removed. She laughed, she danced, she lived.
Until one summer afternoon, when everything changed. That was the day she began to live with fear.
She was seventeen. Out with friends by the lake on a small island with a beach. The day was hot, the music loud, everyone happy. My mom didn’t know how to swim, but she loved the sun.
Then, out of nowhere, a storm rolled in. The sky went dark in minutes. People rushed to board the only small ferry that connected the island to the shore. My mother had one foot on the gangway when a boy from her group — who liked her but had never told her — pulled her back.
He just wanted to spend a little more time with her.
She got angry. She shouted at him. Slapped him. He’d even ripped her new skirt. But he stayed calm — he was just happy to be near her.
Then he looked up and said quietly,
— “Leni… something’s happening.”
— “What’s happening is you’re an idiot. I’d be home by now if you hadn’t stopped me.”
— “Leni… the boat is sinking.”
The small ferry was overloaded. It took on water, then split apart. People fell into the lake. Panic, screams, chaos. Rescue boats came from the other side.
Officially, twenty-four people died. Unofficially, many more.
My mother didn’t know how to swim. She wouldn’t have stood a chance.
She lived because that boy pulled her back — just to have one more moment with her.
That “moment” became a lifetime.
And eventually… my life.
I don’t know if she ever spoke to him again. But in some strange way, I owe him my existence.
My grandmother’s fear, the trauma of that storm, and her need to protect slowly became part of who my mother was.
And years later, when she had me, that same protective instinct poured into my childhood.
If I went out with my dad: “Take care of her.”
If I went with my grandma: “Please, watch her closely.”
Her words stayed with me, glued themselves to me, turned into my own thoughts.
I grew up surrounded by love — but also by fear.
Every time a storm rolled in, she changed. I could see fear take over her face. She’d shut the windows, pull me close, and hold me tightly under the beam in the hallway — the place she believed was safest.
I wasn’t scared. I wanted to play, to watch TV. But she held me so tight, like she was afraid the wind would take me away.
Back then, I didn’t understand.
Now I do: for her, a storm was never just a storm. It was a return to that day of panic — the day she almost didn’t make it home.
When my mother died, I was twelve.
And with her passing, I felt all those worries, all those fears, quietly move into me. As if, without meaning to, I inherited them.
Her care turned into my anxiety.
Her fear became mine.
Today I understand that my mother wasn’t a fearful woman.
She was a woman who had seen death too early, who grew up in the shadow of loss, and who learned that love meant being afraid for the people you care about.
And I, her daughter, am learning to love without fear — to break the chain of storms that bound three generations of women together.