Two Worlds, One Me by Yuliia Kuzmenko

I wish I could be transparent with my family.

I remember my childhood as being so happy. Going on walks with my parents and the family gatherings where my grandma would bake her special recipe pie. Even now, during the holidays, the atmosphere is so nice and warm until someone mentions something political. At least it doesn't break into a verbal altercation - all the family share that they are conservative. But as soon as recent news comes up, that peaceful and warm mood just shatters like a piece of glass.

Today is a warm day in the middle of June. It’s Grandma’s birthday. I know that today, I will leave the place that I grew up in with a full belly and, hopefully, in an uplifted mood. As long as no one mentions the pride that was yesterday.

It's like I'm living a double life. None of which is bad per se. Yesterday was filled with colour, laughter, and the steady warmth of my partner’s hand in mine. We walked through the streets surrounded by people who didn’t need explanations, who saw us for who we were and didn't blink. The banners, the music, the cheers - it was like the world cracked open just enough for joy to spill out. 

And now, today. A different world. One where I know how to move, how to speak, when to nod and smile and keep quiet. The car hums softly beneath me as I drive through familiar streets, past the same houses, the same neatly trimmed gardens. It’s always a little unsettling, how nothing changes here, like a picture frozen in time. The only thing different is me.

Inside, the house is bustling. Aunts and uncles laugh in the kitchen, my cousins argue over who gets the last of the homemade bread, and Grandma, in her usual armchair, beams at me the second I step through the doorway.

“There you are, sweetheart,” she says, holding her arms open. I go to her without hesitation, sinking into the familiar hug. She smells like vanilla and something floral, like always.

“Happy birthday, Grandma.”

She pats my cheek with a wrinkled hand. “You look tired. Working too hard?”

Something like that. I only smile, nodding. Across the room, the TV is on. Some of my relatives are gathered around it, the volume low but clear enough to hear. A news anchor is speaking, gesturing toward footage playing behind her. Bright colours, moving crowds. My heart stops.

I know that shot.

It’s from yesterday.

The camera pans over the parade, over the people dancing, over the signs held high - and then, suddenly, there we are. Me and her. Holding hands, laughing, wrapped up at the moment, unaware of the lens capturing us.

My stomach twists. I can’t move.

Someone shifts on the couch. A cousin, maybe an uncle, mutters something under his breath. Someone else hums in agreement. Grandma, still holding my hand, hasn’t looked away from me.

The warmth of yesterday and the warmth that I hoped to feel today fade suddenly - like I've jumped into icy cold water.