I did not sleep well. I woke up to the sound of my mother preparing breakfast.
I take a deep breath and prepare myself to face the outcome of my revelation.
As I reach for the door, my hand is trembling.
I try to calm myself for a few minutes, but anxiety consumes me.
Hearing my father's voice, I decide not to delay any longer and step out.
I reach the kitchen and see my father sitting at the table, and my mother at the stove, removing a pot from the heat.
I do not see any tension in her movements.
My father's shoulders are relaxed. There is no stiffness, no tension — and that leaves me unsure of what to think.
I want to believe that this lack of tension is good news, but anxiety will not allow it.
My mind begins to race through countless scenarios, my quick mind now becoming more of a curse than a help.
They notice my presence.
And then I receive something that shatters my anxiety.
A simple smile from my mother — but a natural smile, without tension, without fear behind it. Just a smile.
From my father, only a slight nod of the head, but that alone washes away all the tension I had built up since the night before.
I sit at the table at the same time as my mother.
The tension had dissipated — but I was still anxious.
Sitting stiff as a board, looking like a little boy who had been caught red-handed.
Waiting for his sentence.
Until my mother speaks:
"Geralt! You are my son. No memories of another world, as you say, will change that. And even though you tell me you have an adult mind, I still have my doubts."
My father then adds:
"I don't think it's an adult mind. It's more like a brat with too much knowledge."
I stand stunned for a few seconds before firing back:
"Hey, I'm not a brat."
That line makes both of them laugh — and soon I find myself laughing with them.
That breaks the dam, and I feel myself finally relax.
Tears come out — not from sadness, but from relief.
My mother hugs me and asks in a trembling voice:
"What is it, my son? Is everything all right?"
I answer:
"It's nothing — just relief. I spent the whole night imagining you rejecting me, or acting suspicious of me."
I had not realized how much this secret had been consuming me.
My mother hugs me tighter, and I hear my father speaking:
"We don't distrust you, but magic is another matter. You're going to have to explain that part better."
My mother adds while looking at my father:
"It's not distrust — it's concern. We've heard stories about the dangers of mages. As parents, we can't help but worry."
I say, "If you want, we can go to my library, and I can show you everything."
They both agree, and we continue our day.
With a sigh, I stand up and begin my chores.
I feel a lightness I did not have before.
A weight lifted from my shoulders.