When Peter’s company transferred him back to Germany, he was elated. Returning home felt like reclaiming a missing piece of himself, and I tried to share that excitement for his sake. Privately, I struggled more than I admitted. I missed my family, my language, the sense of ease that comes from familiarity. His parents welcomed me politely, but the warmth felt rehearsed rather than genuine. His sister, Klara, barely masked her sharpness. German filled the house constantly, and while I never announced it, I understood far more than they assumed. At first, I stayed silent because I thought it was temporary, because learning takes time, and because I didn’t want to make waves. Slowly, though, their words began to sting. They criticized my clothes, my body, my energy while pregnant, speaking freely as if I were deaf rather than simply quiet. I tried to ignore it, reminding myself that pregnancy already magnifies insecurity, that I didn’t need to give their voices more power than they deserved. Still, their comments followed me through the house like a shadow I couldn’t escape.
