It's me but Diffrently

Today marked the anniversary of Rasmus’s mother’s passing.

You watched him from the doorway, your fingers absently rubbing the side of your coffee mug. The ceramic was warm, but not enough to chase away the chill that had settled in your chest.

You’d never quite learned how to comfort Rasmus when it came to his grief. He carried it quietly, like a stone in his pocket—always there, always heavy, but never shown.

He moved through the morning with that same practiced ease, cleaning food from Medora’s cheeks, brushing toast crumbs from her coat. But you saw it—the subtle stiffness in his movements, the way his eyes lingered on his mother photo framed on the kitchen mantel just a second too long.

You pressed your lips into a thin line, heart aching with the weight of it all. You wanted to reach for him, say something, anything, that might ease the pain etched into his silence. But the words felt clumsy on your tongue.

You loved him so deeply that just knowing he was hurting made your own eyes sting. It felt unfair—this helplessness. To love someone so much and still not know how to comfort the parts of them that hurt.

“Rasmus,” you said softly, stepping into the kitchen.

He looked up, surprised by the sudden shift in your tone. You smiled—just enough to ease the space between you—and stepped closer, cupping his cheek in your hand. His skin was warm beneath your touch, a little rough with stubble, and he leaned into it without thinking, instinctive and trusting.

His purple eyes met yours, soft but guarded. Flecks of worry lingered there, buried beneath the morning routine and the forced calm he wore like armor.

His brow furrowed slightly, as though a question had surfaced that he wasn’t ready to ask. But he stayed silent.

You rubbed your thumb gently along his cheekbone, your heart catching at the slight tremble in his breath. Then, leaning in, you kissed him—light and slow. It wasn’t rushed or dramatic—just a quiet promise: I see you. I’m here for you.

“I love you,” you whispered against his lips, the words clinging to the moment like warmth. As you stepped back with a smile, you added softly, “why don’t you come home early today and I will make you homemade pizza, okay?”

He didn’t answer at first, but you saw it—the way the lines in his forehead relaxed, the tension in his shoulders loosening like a breath finally released.

Medora, still humming to herself, sat on the kitchen floor with her stuffed rabbit, making it hop along the tiles like nothing in the world was wrong.

Rasmus’s cheeks flushed, and he looked down briefly. His chest felt tight—too full of things he hadn’t found words for. You could almost feel them pressing against his ribs.

You held his gaze a little longer, your own eyes gentle but steady. In your silence was everything you couldn’t bring yourself to say aloud: I know today is hard. I haven’t forgotten. You don’t have to carry it alone.

“…Idiot,” he muttered, turning his face away.

Your heart skipped. The word stung, not because of what he said, but the way he said it—quiet, strained. You opened your mouth to apologize, panic flickering up like a match—

—but then his hand found yours. His fingers curled around yours with a quiet certainty, his thumb brushing gently over your knuckles in slow, soothing circles.

“But thank you, babe,” he said, voice hoarse but honest.

“Daddy!”

Both of you turned at the small, indignant voice.

Medora had risen to her feet, her tiny fists planted firmly on her hips, the rabbit now slung dramatically under one arm.

“Mommy isn’t an idiot!” she declared, her little face scrunched in a pout that mirrored Rasmus’s when he was flustered.

You couldn’t help it—your laughter bubbled up, soft and surprised, and even Rasmus let out a quiet chuckle, rubbing the back of his neck.

The heaviness in the room didn’t disappear—but it felt a little lighter, softened by small hands and big hearts.

After watching Medora scold her father with all the serious authority a three-year-old could muster—lecturing him on the importance of being “nice and not calling people names”—you stood by the front door, waving as they disappeared down the sidewalk. Rasmus looked back once, offering a small, sheepish smile. You gave him a wink in return.

The door clicked shut, and the house settled into silence.

You turned toward the kitchen, your steps soft against the hardwood floors. As you passed the living room, your eyes drifted upward, landing on the photo above the mantel.

Your mother-in-law smiled back at you from behind the glass—eyes kind, laugh lines etched deep into her face from a life unfortunately cutted short.

You paused, resting your hand on the back of the couch, and spoke into the quiet.

“Would you like me to get some flowers later?” you asked her, voice low, gentle. A small, sad smile tugged at your lips. “Maybe your favorite flower that Rasmus told me about?”

The picture didn’t answer, of course, but the weight in your chest eased just a little.

You sighed softly and rolled up your sleeves, easing into the comforting rhythm of routine. The silence of the house wrapped around you like a blanket, familiar but a little too quiet.

You started with the dishes—rinsing, scrubbing, stacking. The warm water and soft clink of ceramic grounded you. From there, you moved into the living room, folding the throw blanket draped over the couch and gathering the scattered toys Medora had left in her wake like breadcrumbs. A tiny stuffed fox ended up tucked under your arm, its stitched eyes watching silently as you tidied.

In the kitchen, the comforting scent of flour and yeast soon filled the air. You began preparing pizza dough for dinner, your hands moving with practiced ease. Press, knead, stretch. The dough yielded beneath your palms, soft and warm, and for a fleeting moment, the silence wasn’t so heavy—it felt earned.

Once the dough was resting in the fridge, you decided to use the wait time to pick up something special: flowers. You knew just the kind—your late mother-in-law’s favorite. Something about the idea of them on the table tonight felt… right. A small tribute.

You slipped on your jacket and stepped out, walking the familiar path down the street to the neighborhood floral shop. The bell above the door chimed as you entered, and the scent of petals and greenery welcomed you in.

“Hey there!” Damon, the local florist, greeted with a warm smile from behind the counter, his hands lightly dusted with soil. You gave him a wave, returning the smile as you wandered through the rows of blooms.

Your gaze swept across the colorful displays until it landed on a small bouquet tucked quietly in the corner. Lavender-hued lilies and soft cream roses—simple, elegant, unmistakably her. You remembered the stories Rasmus had told you: how his mother would keep them in a vase by the kitchen window, how she’d hum softly as she arranged them, her fingers gentle, reverent, like tending a secret joy.

Your chest tightened—bittersweet. You never got the chance to meet her, and yet you often wondered… would she have liked you?

You reached for the bouquet, fingers brushing the delicate paper wrapping, when another hand touched yours. Startled, you looked up—and locked eyes with Mr. Järvi.

He looked just as surprised. “Sorry—” you both said at once, then paused.

“Mr. Järvi?” you added, blinking.

“(Y/N)?” he replied with a faint smile. “How are you and Medora doing?”

His voice was soft, worn at the edges. You took a moment to study his face—tired eyes, lined with the quiet weight of grief, but kind. Always kind.

You picked up the bouquet and turned to face him fully. “We’re doing good,” you said, then laughed gently. “Medora gave Rasmus a lecture today on being more kind. It was very serious.”

His smile widened, a chuckle rising up from his chest. You offered the bouquet to him, your tone warm. “Here. I know you were coming for these. They’re for a very special lady.”

He accepted the flowers slowly, his fingers curling around the stems as if they were something delicate and sacred. “Thank you, sweetheart,” he said, voice thick with quiet gratitude. His eyes softened. “And how is Rasmus today?”

You tilted your head. “He’s… doing his best,” you said honestly. “It’s hard, but he’s trying.”

There was a pause, quiet but full of understanding. Then you smiled again. “I’m making homemade pizza tonight. You should come by. Medora would love it.”

Mr. Järvi blinked, surprised by the offer, then gave a nod, slow and thoughtful. “I think I’d like that.”

After your heartfelt conversation with your father-in-law, you purchased a bouquet of white lilies—symbols of purity, remembrance, and hope. These elegant flowers, often associated with spiritual enlightenment and new beginnings, felt like a fitting tribute to your late mother-in-law, whom you never had the chance to meet.

With the lilies in hand, you hurried home, mindful of the time. You wanted to ensure the pizza dough had ample time to rise before picking up Medora from kindergarten.

Later, in the cozy warmth of your kitchen, Medora stood on her little stool beside you, her tiny hands eagerly sprinkling toppings onto the pizza. As she chatted animatedly about her day at school, you couldn't help but smile at her enthusiasm.

Suddenly, the front door opened and closed with a familiar creak. Medora's eyes lit up as she exclaimed, "Daddy!"

Rasmus stepped into the kitchen, his face breaking into a warm smile at the sight of his daughter. He scooped her up into a hug, planting a kiss on her forehead.

"Smells delicious in here," he remarked, noticing the pizza preparations.

You smiled, holding up the bouquet of white lilies. "I thought these would brighten up the table tonight."

Rasmus took the flowers, his eyes softening. "She would have loved these," he said quietly.