February 24th, 2022. The alarm went off at eight o’clock. As it always did.

I would get up and get my daughter ready for school; my husband would take the dog to the forest. Work, some plans, in the evening we would pick our daughter up and go to our park. We would see friends there, roast marshmallows, talk. On Saturday, we’d go to our friend’s birthday. Sunday — see our parents. Soon the construction work on the house would be done, and we’d have our housewarming.

We won’t have our housewarming. We won’t go anywhere. There will be nothing. Nothing. And I realised this with the sound of the alarm in the background — it was enough to just look out the window. There’s a building site opposite our building. Every morning at eight o’clock it’s full of construction workers in their orange vests. The crane swings round. Life goes on. Always. But not today. Today, in the window I saw no one. I knew what it meant. I knew and I closed my eyes so that I could have my last peaceful morning last a moment longer.

Then — calls from family, terrifying news, shaking hands, things that you need to pack — or not pack? Are we leaving or what are we to do? If we are leaving, then where are we going?

Nearby, Ruscists [Russian fascists] are bombing the airport, we fall to the ground for the first time, our little daughter is scared and she’s crying. The explosion is far away, everything is alright, or is it not alright? The explosions are closer now and more frequent. The night in the bomb shelter, the grey ceiling, my daughter’s eyes so full of sorrow, and her question, which she repeats over and over again: «Mama, when will this day end?»

This day has not ended yet.

Iryna, Irpin