“Do you even think before you speak?” John’s eyes blazed, his latest question sharp with contempt. He crossed his arms, his glare intensifying as Gretchen’s lower lip trembled, while she gazed up at him from the couch. “Or do you just enjoy hearing the sound of your own voice?”

Fighting a surge of resentment, she dropped her gaze to the floor. “It’s not my fault that they can’t handle the truth.”

“Right, their discomfort is their problem.” He ran a hand through his hair, biting back a frustrated noise. “You have no idea how the world works, do you? You just spew whatever without thinking, because thinking is also everyone else’s problem.” He walked over to the fireplace, staring into it for a long moment. “You’re like a bull in a china shop, Gretch, breaking everything around you and expecting someone else to clean up the mess.”

“No one one else has the guts to be honest!” she protested.

He looked up. “You really do think you’re making some kind of statement,” he remarked, sounding somewhere between disgusted and amazed.

“Why should I have to pretend that everything’s okay, when it’s not?” she demanded, dashing tears from her eyes. “Someone needs to stand up to my stupid father.” Sitting on this couch felt like sitting on a cloth-covered board. Picking up one of the equally square and rigid throw pillows, she willed it to understand, since other human beings apparently couldn’t. “He doesn’t listen to me anyway,” she mumbled. “Mom doesn’t, either. Why should I care what they think?”

John released a weary sigh, the weight of the world seemingly deflating with his breath. “Because, Gretch, it’s not just about you.” A photograph sat framed on the mantel, of a little boy, smiling tremulously at the camera. Wearing a short-trouser sailor suit and clutching his rosary and Bible, he must’ve been making his first communion. Gretchen had seen it earlier, and wondered who he was. Not August, not with those brown eyes. John must’ve been asking himself the same question, because he picked it up and turned it over in his hands.

“Whatever.” She threw herself back dramatically, and winced. “I’m not going to act fake, so everyone else can pretend they’re perfect.”

“Fine.” John replaced the photograph, anger merging into resignation. “You might not want to get along, but I do. And the reputation I develop, especially with my superior officers, matters.” He fell silent again, considering. “I don’t see that our hosts, who’ve gone to a lot of work, need to be brought down a peg but even if they do?” He turned. “I really don’t appreciate it, you making me look bad.”

John still spoke in a mixture of German and English, but Gretchen had heard the same complaints enough in both languages to understand them and besides, his tone made his point all too well. “What you mean,” she retorted icily, “is that men should be able to control their women. I should sit down and behave, like an idiot, or the other neanderthals might judge you and God forbid.”

His eyes narrowed. “What I mean is that I want you to care about my future.”

And she did! But she had a future, too—and she needed it to be about more than playing sidekick. “Nobody’s ever going to change,” she insisted, “unless someone calls them out.”

A brief, sardonic smile twisted John’s features. “For all your talk of fighting the man, you’re important enough to throw a tantrum whenever things don’t go your way. Your dad’s the Reichskommissar, after all, and before that he had a different and equally important position. He knows powerful people. So if his daughter’s a total bitch….” He shrugged.

“People know I’m right,” she huffed.

“People are scared to say anything.” His hands in his pockets, John returned to studying the fireplace. “Nobodies like me can’t get away with these stunts—male, female, or anything in between. But even if I could, I’m not looking to ride on anyone else’s coattails.”

The first scalding, betraying tear tear ran down her cheek. “I thought you liked me.”

John’s shoulders slumped. “I do, Gretch. But if you keep burning bridges like this, if you keep treating other people like they’re props, you’re going to find yourself all alone.”

Gretchen sat there, her emotions a tangled mess. How dare John make her feel so small, like she was just a clueless kid? The nerve of him, acting like he knew everything about her life and what she went through. But…was he right? Was she actually no different from Charlotte, or Zelda, using some man’s authority to her own ends? John gassed on about fitting in, but he had privilege. What did he know about being stuck in a world where everyone expected her to just smile, nod, and play nice? He had no idea how suffocating it was. He was wrong—had to be—about most of it. But then why did his words get under her skin so much? Maybe because, deep down, she was afraid he might be right about a few things. Not everything, of course, but just enough to make her wonder. Was she really as naïve as he made her out to be? The thought twisted her insides. She didn’t want to be that girl, the one who just coasted through life without realizing what she was taking for granted. But if she wasn’t that girl, then who was she?

Scariest of all, she wasn’t sure she knew.

The couch dipped slightly as John sat down next to her. She wondered if he was about to apologize; her parents usually did, after once again criticizing her for existing. But instead, he steepled his fingers together and started talking about bugs. “I’m guessing you don’t know much about fireflies, but we’ve got a lot of them in Minnesota. Did you know, they’re actually beetles? Ladybugs are, too, they’re part of the Lampyridae family. The name comes from the Greek word lampein, which means to shine. And they do shine—they just draw you right in, you know?”

She nodded slowly, confused about why he was suddenly narrating a nature program.

“But they’re also easy prey, fireflies. They’ve got no teeth, no claws, nothing like that. So instead, to defend themselves, they excrete this special chemical that makes them taste bad. And by bad, I mean foul.” He drew a breath, collecting his thoughts. “Back in Waseca, I remember sitting on the porch and watching this toad who used to come and hang out with me sometimes.”

“I don’t know toad yet,” she admitted, wiping her nose with the back of her hand.

“Eine Kröte,” he clarified, forming a round shape with his hands. “And this bad boy, he just snaps his tongue out and catches what must’ve looked like a real tasty blue-plate special. But then, guess what? Mr. Toad spits it right back out.” His chuckle was soft, his mind’s eye bringing him back to that long ago night. “This was the summer after fifth grade, so I was definitely old enough to know better, but I got curious and tried one for myself.”

Her hand flew to her mouth. “What?”

“Goddamn.” He made a face like he’d just swallowed sour milk. “My mouth went numb for an hour.” He paused, his eyes searching hers. “You’re lashing out, because you’re scared and you don’t know how to handle it. But that’s no excuse for being cruel.”

Gretchen hung her head. “I felt so stupidly betrayed, when I found out Zelda was getting married. It was like The Stepford Wives! One minute she’s got all these hopes and dreams and the next she’s popping out kids and playing house!” Watching her independent-minded friend transform into a mindless, docile housewife felt like reading that stupid book all over again but in real time. But that was just life in the Reich, wasn’t it? Men mocked her fears and dismissed them, until one morning she woke up and didn’t care.

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

“Zelda making choices you don’t understand,” he replied, “doesn’t make her a robot—or a victim.”

“Everyone’s so excited for her,” Gretchen fumed, “because he’s such a catch. And it’s so old-fashioned, this idea that a woman’s worth is tied to who she marries! Like, excuse me, but I’m not about to spend my life catering to some man’s every whim! Guys get to live their lives, have careers, and no one bats an eye. But if a girl doesn’t want to cosplay Betty Crocker, suddenly she’s weird or difficult.” Her fingers tightened on the pillow, the fabric a poor substitute for the throat she wished she could strangle. “They treat me like I’m some prize to be won, like my whole purpose is to make some guy’s life easier. Well, newsflash: I’m not a prize, and I’m not interested in being anyone’s possession!”

“Men have been telling women what to do since the dawn of time,” John pointed out, unmoved. “And women have been smart enough to ignore them, and I don’t see that changing any time soon. Whatever your gender, Gretch, whatever your feelings about that gender, you’re an individual and your future’s your own. Zelda seems perfectly happy and, not for nothing, her husband’s the domestic one.” The hardness in his expression faded. “Marriage is what two people decide it is.”

“Marriage is a contract,” she shot back, disgusted with how purposefully obtuse he was being. “Charlotte acts like it’s some fairytale and now, so does Zelda, because she’s drunk the Kool-Aid. But I refuse. Love doesn’t last, and I’m not going to pretend it does just to make them happy.”

“Your parents’ problems,” he began slowly, “might be their fault, and not society’s. They—

“I don’t need a man to complete me!” she interjected hotly. “I can take care of myself, thank you very much. Why does everyone act like I’m incomplete without a ring on my finger?”

He opened his mouth, then shut it again, then studied her for a very long time. “There are worse things,” he stated eventually, “than wanting to be happy—and wanting the people you love to share the things that make you happy. Regardless, I don’t think that ring’s coming from me.”

She blinked. “You’re breaking up with me?”

John took a deep breath, his expression softening even as he nodded. “Yeah, I guess I am, Gretch.” He grimaced, rubbing the back of his neck as if searching for the right words. “Look, I care about you a lot. But I’m starting to realize that we’re just…not in the same place right now.”

Staring at him, she tried to process his words. “Not in the same place?”

“You’re nineteen,” he replied gently, “and you’re still figuring things out—who you are, what you want. That’s normal, but it’s also tough when you’re trying to be in a relationship at the same time. I’m older, I’ve been through a bit more, and I need someone who’s ready for the kind of life I want to build. And right now, it feels like we’re pulling in opposite directions.” He stopped, giving her a chance to respond; when she didn’t, he continued. “You’re angry at the world, and I get that. There’s a lot to be angry about. But until you figure out how to channel that anger into something constructive, it’s just going to keep pushing people away—including me.”

Her eyes stung, but she refused to cry again. “So, what? You’re dumping me because I’m not mature enough for you? Because you’re so perfect?”

“No, it’s not about that.” He shook his head, his voice softening even more. “It’s about what we both need. I need someone who’s ready to stand beside me, not just fight against everything. And you…you need time to grow, to find out who you really are, without feeling like you have to fit into someone else’s expectations—mine, your parents’, society’s, whoever.” He reached out, placing a hand on hers. “You’re strong, and you’ve got so much potential. But I can’t be the one to help you figure all that out. You need to do that on your own.”

She didn’t respond.

John stood. “I’m going to see if Frau Voight needs help.”

She watched him walk away, her heart sinking with each step. The spot next to her felt even emptier now, the void growing as she replayed their conversation in her mind. Her gaze dropped to the coffee table, some kind of brushed stainless steel contraption that was ugly as sin, and wondered how so much of her life had unraveled so quickly. All she’d been trying to do was assert herself, to stand up and say she wasn’t going to be a mindless drone like so many others. She’d wanted to be strong, to find out who she really was. But every time she tried to carve out her own path, it felt like the ground beneath her feet crumbled away, leaving her stumbling.

Wasn’t she supposed to feel empowered by being a modern, independent woman? Wasn’t standing up to her father and refusing to conform supposed to make her stronger? Instead, she felt like she was driving everyone away. John’s words echoed in her mind, stinging more than she wanted to admit. Had she really been burning bridges, mistaking stubbornness for strength? She just wanted to be respected, to be seen for who she really was. But maybe in her rush to assert her independence, she’d lost sight of what that even meant.

A footstep sounded, and her father’s voice broke through the silence. He sat down beside her, the couch groaning a little under his weight. He didn’t say anything for a moment, just looked at her with the kind of tenderness that made her feel even guiltier. “Heard you and John had a bit of a tiff,” he offered, in one of his ham-fisted attempts to lighten the mood.

“Yeah, well…. I guess I’m just not good enough for him,” Gretchen muttered.

“It’s not about being good enough, pumpkin,” her father chided softly. “It’s about finding the right person at the right time. And sometimes, that means realizing when things aren’t meant to be.”

Her put-upon sign sounded suspiciously like a sob. “Why does everyone keep saying that?” she wailed. “Like it’s so easy to just let go and move on—to new countries, new people, new everything.”

“Nobody’s saying it’s easy.” Her father’s tone was thoughtful. “Life is very, very hard, most of the time, not because we want it to be but because we can’t control the universe—only ourselves.” He took a beat, considering. “Our choice, in the end, isn’t between hard or easy but between hard and hard: the hard of fighting to achieve our goals, or the hard of watching other people live the life we wish we had. People who are maybe slower and stupider than we are, but who got out there and tried and didn’t mind making a fool of themselves doing so.”

She looked at him, really seeing him for the first time in what felt like forever. “You’re talking about your career, aren’t you? All those nights you spent working, all those people you tried to impress. I always thought you were just… bootlicking.”

He laughed softly, but there was no humor in it. “Bootlicking, huh? I suppose that’s a fair description. But as delightful a conversationalist as Adolf is, I could go the rest of my life without hearing another word about Nietzsche. It was about making sure you and your mother were taken care of. Making sure you had opportunities, a future. And, yes, maybe even a decent husband.”

Gretchen frowned, the pieces of the puzzle finally starting to click together. “You really believe that?”

Her father nodded. “Every handshake, every late night at the office, every ‘yes sir’ and ‘no sir’... It wasn’t just for me, sweetheart. It was for you. I wanted to build something solid, something that’d last, so you wouldn’t have to struggle like I did…and like your mother did.”

Tears welled up in her eyes again, but this time they weren’t just from hurt. “But…I thought you just didn’t care. About me, about Mom…. I thought all you cared about was work.”

He sighed, his voice filled with the kind of regret that came from years of misunderstandings. “I know it must’ve seemed that way. And I’m sorry for that. But I did it because I care about you both so much. I wanted to give you the best life I could, even if it meant making sacrifices.”

Gretchen blinked, stunned. “You…really mean that?”

He reached over, gently squeezing her hand. “More than anything in this world,” he assured her softly. “And I know I’m not perfect—I’ve made my share of mistakes. But everything I’ve done, I’ve done because I love you. And because I love your mother. She’s always been my rock, you know? Even when things were tough, even when I had to do things that disappointed you both… it was for the two of you, even so. I wanted to give you both the best life I could.”

Throwing herself forward, Gretchen buried her face in her father’s shirt. “I love you, too, Dad.”

He stroked her hair gently, the rhythmic movement soothing. “That’s my girl.”