04- Writing a New Story

Hours chased hours, days chased days. It had been exactly one month since Selin had arrived here. Autumn in Canada was beginning to make itself truly felt. Mornings were darker, evenings cooler. Every evening, as the sun turned red on the horizon, she would think that it was already night-time in Zurich, that her son was alone at home, but just as she liked to imagine—sleeping peacefully. From the depths of her heart, she would whisper, “Good night, my darling.” Soon, Charles would be home from work and they would prepare dinner together. In fact, these were the hours when Selin felt most at ease. On the old continent, the sun had long since set, and the night had begun.

When the alarm rang at 6 a.m., still half-asleep, she would reach for the mobile phone on her bedside table, switch off flight mode, and check her messages in case anything urgent had happened overnight.

Still groggy, Charles would stagger to his feet in just his boxer shorts, pull up the blinds and ask, “Do you want coffee, love?” Selin, with her familiar cheeky smile, would always reply, “Yes, darling,” and then their day would begin.

Charles would return to the bedroom carrying two fragrant cups of coffee. He would place one on the bedside table, right where Selin had just set her phone, and as he leaned over to kiss her, he would never fail to say, “Good morning, my love.” Sitting side by side, sipping their coffee, they would talk—about Charles’s work, Selin’s classes, politics, ageing family members, and the journey of life they shared. But most of all, they would talk about their children—now grown—whom they had left behind in two different countries in Europe.

For now, this was their life: calm, peaceful, a life with a rhythm. The children had grown up, but still, leaving them behind to move to another continent was, in itself, an adventure. Selin was very close to her son. She described herself, borrowing an expression from the Far East, as a “tiger mother”. They messaged each other daily. She took interest in his university subjects and would share her thoughts with him. As she sipped her coffee, her mind would drift like a bird flying above the continents. “Leon is probably taking his lunch break now. He’s a bit slow; while the other students are already halfway down the corridor, he’s still packing away his laptop and tablet,” she would imagine.

Charles had two children of his own, but he believed that children should be given freedom, that only in this way could they develop their own identity. On this matter, they were different.

As their conversation deepened, the sky above the city would slowly lighten, the lights would go out one by one, and the day would begin. They planned to stay in this city for no more than two years, then return to the continent. Selin had already started looking for a new house in France or Switzerland. She enjoyed dreaming. Charles joined in her dreams. Nothing could compare to the peace of that first hour spent with morning coffee. Then suddenly they would realise it was nearly seven o’clock, leap out of bed, and dash to the shower together.

For the first time in years, Selin was not working. And it hadn’t been her decision. The company had changed hands, and the new management had made twenty-seven redundancies. This sudden decision initially made her angry—after all the years she had given to the company, being discarded so easily had upset her. But over time, she noticed another feeling growing inside her—a sense of lightness. Perhaps she had needed rest, the chance to learn new things, and to follow Charles to Canada. She was excited that they now had time for each other.

When Charles left for work, she had half an hour before her French class. She spent it tidying up—loading the dishwasher, putting the flat in order—and her mind went back to the day she was made redundant.

She had climbed the stairs, entered the four-digit code, and stepped into the large, open-plan office. Ever since the company had changed owners, she had felt a tightness in her chest each time she passed through that door. One of the young managers, seated near the entrance, was loudly scolding someone on the phone. His disrespectful tone always irritated Selin. She had dropped her things at her desk and gone to the kitchen area in the corner for coffee. As she placed her cup beneath the sparkling Italian espresso machine, a colleague told her, “Apparently twenty-seven people are being let go today.”

Returning to her desk, she had opened the email in question. It came from that same young manager who had annoyed her earlier. Written in management school jargon, the message coldly explained that twenty-seven “redundant headcount” would be dismissed to improve efficiency and reduce costs. She was disgusted by the arrogant tone—it perfectly reflected the character of the company’s new owners.

She had seen her colleagues being led to HR one by one, like prisoners walking to execution. Before she could even think, “Is it my turn?”, Marina appeared silently beside her and invited her to the meeting room. As soon as she left the office, she had burst into tears. On the tram, everyone looked sad to her, as if the whole day was weighed down with sorrow. She had got off and walked along the waterfront under the light drizzle. When she remembered her fiftieth birthday was just a week away, she cried again—“What a terrible birthday present,” she thought—and only then did she feel some relief. The emotions from that day were still fresh, but they no longer hurt her.

She swung her green leather rucksack over her shoulder and glanced in the mirror one more time. Twenty-five years ago, when she came to Zurich for a job interview, the company had even paid for her flight from Stockholm. Life had been full of promise. The interview had been brief. The HR manager had already prepared her contract before she arrived. Her salary would be nearly three times what she earned in Stockholm. What a polite man he had been. Over the past twenty-five years, the job title had changed from “personnel manager” to “head of human resources.” Back then, that kind man had said, “The CEO and I have signed it. All that’s left is your signature. Go home, read it, think about it, and let us know.” She smiled at the memory—she had felt as if she were walking on air.

Those twenty-five years had passed beautifully and quickly. She had advanced in her career, achieved financial success, and built herself a safety net. Yet for some reason, she had never dared to change the story she was living. It was only after being made redundant that she found the courage to rewrite her narrative.

She turned from Saint André Street onto Rue de la Commune. The rain was falling lightly again. This time, Selin was walking with a wide smile on her face. She had left behind her job, her routine, her old life—but she had wholeheartedly embraced her new one. Sometimes, an ending we didn’t write ourselves can be the start of a brand new story.

 

03- Two People, Two Wounds

 

Kaan was sitting in his living room in Istanbul, silent and thoughtful, staring at his computer screen. He repeatedly read and edited the email he had written to his father, although he hadn’t yet summoned the courage to send it. He was striving both to express the emotions he had gathered inside him as clearly as possible, and to avoid any mistaken phrase that his father might twist or exaggerate. The coldness and lack of communication between him and his father Karl had become an unbearable burden. That chill even froze his heart on a warm autumn evening in Istanbul.

Evening had fallen, the sun had set over the sea. His son had run to his cheek for a kiss before bedtime, using his adorable persuasive charm to coax his mother into reading him a bedtime story. As their voices receded down the corridor, Kaan tried to put into words the sadness he felt at knowing his son would grow up never knowing his grandfather.

Twelve years ago, his father and his mother—originally from İzmir—had moved to İzmir for their retirement years. But shortly afterwards, after forty years of marriage, they had gone through a painful separation. His father had rushed back to Canada in haste.

He read the email to his father through from start to finish again. The sadness, anger, and disappointment he had bottled inside weighed heavily on him. He had perhaps begun with a somewhat harsh phrase: “Papa, you can be so cruel, but I am not.” Yet he hoped that if his father read the letter to its conclusion, he might understand.

His father had met his mother while serving as an observer at the American base in İzmir. He had fallen madly in love and they had married quickly. When they were three, seven, and nine, they had moved to Canada, their father’s homeland. Their childhood had been beautiful. They played tennis, and he once dreamt of becoming a famous tennis player like Daniel Nestor. When he got married at thirty-three, his parents celebrated their fortieth wedding anniversary that year—and they were still very happy.

Later, Kaan and his wife had spent time working in Dubai, Singapore, and Zürich. Then, after being offered a good job in Istanbul, they had settled here six years ago. While in Dubai, some sort of indiscretion from his father had occurred, and they divorced hastily. After that scandalous divorce, his father had married another woman in short order—without feeling any need to explain himself, without telling anyone.

From that day on, Karl had removed his three children entirely from his life, returned to Canada, and began living with his new wife in the beautiful home in Westmont where he had spent his youth. His sisters still live in Canada, but they have never spoken to him—having always sided with their mother. Kaan found it hard to understand either party.

Reflecting on his own small family, he wondered what his father had sacrificed. His nephews and son were growing up without ever knowing their grandfather. Unlike his sisters, he hadn’t given up. He had tried many times to reach out to his father and had tried to create opportunities for his son to meet him. They had met a few times. Yet each time, Karl had put distance between himself and his children, yielding to the whims of his new wife. In that email, Kaan was giving him one last chance. “Time passes, people grow old, people die—but you never question yourself,” he had written. These words were both a plea and a warning to his father.

Before sending the email, he took a deep breath. The mild evening breeze of Istanbul drifted through the open window, easing his heart somewhat. He knew every word he had written was true. He had told his father how hurt and wounded he had been over the years—and that he was still ready to forgive him. He paused before pressing send and thought it over. His father might remain silent again, but he felt at peace with having done his part. Finally, he took another deep breath and pressed the send button.

………………………………

Karl was seated in the living room of the house he had bought on the slopes of Mont Royal about thirty years ago when his children first grew up, opening a card-reading tool on his laptop. Autumn had come, days were shortening. His wife was busy in the kitchen preparing lunch, and the deep silence of the home filled him with contrasting sensations of peace and discomfort. At that moment, a new email arrived in his inbox. The sender was his son Kaan, with whom he had completely cut off communication for a year, ignoring calls and messages.

His eyes locked on the screen, his heart began to race. He hesitated, hand poised over the mouse, whether to open it or not. The subject line was simple and direct: “Papa.” Memories flooded his mind—playing tennis with his son on an open court in the rain, getting soaked through, the children running up and down the stairs at home. He hoped this was the apology he had long awaited. With hope in his heart, he clicked open the email. But the subject had deceived him. The email began: “Papa, you can be so cruel, but I am not.” That opening sentence had already angered him. Each time Kaan addressed him like that, it felt like a slap, wounding his paternal pride and pushing him toward silence. He was already irritated. He frowned, offended by the way his son had addressed him. The words Kaan had used to suggest his new wife was ignorant and greedy—and unworthy of their family—had burned every bridge. While rebuilding his life, the harsh words his son had said about his wife were unforgivable.

He took another deep breath and continued reading. “A year has passed, and you are still silent. I have tried to reach you. A year is not that long, but perhaps you have had time to reflect. Because of the whims of the woman you took into your life after my mother, you erased me and my sisters from your life. Maybe you could look at this issue again with fresh eyes.”

He leaned back and closed his eyes. His son’s words gnawed at him. He twisted the events in his mind, in every line accusing him—labelling him selfish and distant. “You erased us for a woman’s whims,” his son said. He sighed deeply. He could not accept that he had to focus on this new life. His marriage of many years to his first wife had been happy, but later they drifted apart. Returning to İzmir, where they had spent their happiest decade, he thought everything would return to perfection—but everything collapsed. Then he entered a relationship that brought him happiness again. His new wife was truly supportive, offering peace in his life. His children, however, not only refused to accept it—they blamed him harshly because of the unpleasant events surrounding the divorce.

Karl, thinking that things were going well with Kaan, had again erupted in an impulsive outburst and insulted his own wife during their last meeting. He could never forget the angry words his son had thrown at him. He thought to himself, “Kaan, nothing will be resolved until you apologise to my wife.” But there was no sign of reconciliation from his son—instead, more accusations each time, claiming he had neglected his children. Throughout the email, Kaan reverted to the past, emphasising the weight of his father’s decisions: “You’ve broken my heart so many times—I don’t know if I can ever rebuild it.” That final sentence also pierced Karl’s heart deeply.

He let his fingers hover over the screen, considering whether to write a reply. The response he would pen would surely ignite yet another inescapable dispute. He sat up in his armchair and averted his gaze from the screen. His wife came from the kitchen and began placing plates on the table. For a moment, he looked out of the window. The wind was murmuring against the house walls outside and swaying the leafless trees. He closed his laptop, stood up, and made his way to the kitchen to help his wife.

 

01- This City

 

Discovering a city is like stepping into a new story. I’d like to tell you about this city I’ve only recently begun to explore. At first glance, it may not appear much different from other major cities. Montreal, with its wide boulevards, towering apartment blocks, bustling cafés and streets echoing with various languages at every corner, is a typical metropolis.

My first trip to Montreal dates back a year. At the time, my boyfriend had travelled here several times due to the preliminary work for a factory his company was setting up nearby. Each time, his schedule had been confirmed at the last minute, so I hadn’t been able to join him. But last September, I arranged a schedule that allowed me to work remotely in the mornings and take the afternoons off, and I travelled here with him. That eight-day visit was my first real contact with Montreal. Those days passed like a dream. In the mornings, I’d work until noon, then once it was after 6pm in Zurich, I’d go out, have lunch at a different restaurant each day, visit museums and galleries, and sit in parks sketching. It was such a busy week that we even managed to fit in a classical music concert and a weekend trip to Quebec City. So when we moved here, the city wasn’t entirely unfamiliar to me.

Still, when my boyfriend received a permanent transfer offer, we were hesitant about moving and deliberately made the process more difficult by keeping our conditions high. But in the end, they came back with an irresistible offer: a stunning apartment in our chosen location, a car, insurance, and a very attractive salary. Slowly, we warmed to the idea of moving — like frogs gradually adjusting to cold water heating up. Before we knew it, days turned into weeks, weeks into months, and by March this year, we found ourselves choosing our new flat in Montreal and setting a move-in date.

As someone who has lived in different countries and often describes herself as a global citizen, I’m not sure why I hesitated so much about coming to Montreal. Maybe it was the time difference, maybe the vast ocean separating us from Europe, or perhaps the fear of being far from loved ones. But ultimately, I clung to two narratives to convince myself: one was the need to take a break from my career, the other was my long-standing desire to improve my French, which I hadn’t had much chance to study properly.

And so our Montreal adventure began. As I write these lines, I can see the statue of Mary atop Bonsecours Church from my window — arms open towards the harbour and sailors. The dome of Bonsecours Market gleams like silver in the sunlight. Down below, the streets are alive with movement.

From our home, I walk straight along Notre Dame Street and reach my school in about ten minutes. On the way, I pass in front of the constitutional court building, and when I arrive at Place Jacques-Cartier, the pavement is already crowded with tourists. Some have arrived by massive cruise ships docked at the port; others by coach — by this time of day, they’ve already begun touring the city’s old town and popular sights. As I approach my school, the sounds of construction grow louder and French, English, and sometimes Spanish conversations echo around me. Along the route, cafés, markets, and businesses line the street. In the mornings, bins wait to be collected, traffic jams build up, and seemingly endless roadworks add to the city’s rhythm.

Judges in their white collars and black robes, businesswomen in heels, rush past in their own worlds. Others, however, haven’t severed those subtle ties to their surroundings — they smile back at you, thank you for holding a door, or simply wish you a good day.

There’s much to say about this city, but I’d like to speak first about a reality that has struck me deeply — something I’ve never seen in any other city before: the homeless. But I’m not referring to the ones we might see in Paris or Washington D.C., curled up in a sheltered corner, sleeping. These people often lie right in the middle of the pavement, not even bothering to use their arms as pillows, their shirts rolled up to their backs, lying there unconscious, as if they’ve simply collapsed. When they are awake, especially on certain stretches of Saint Catherine Street, they wander the streets shouting non-stop, delivering what sounds like speeches — but if you listen closely, the words are completely nonsensical. The scenes resemble something out of a science fiction film, like a scene from a futuristic dystopia. They strangely remind me of the Netflix series Hot Skull.

I was so disturbed by it that my boyfriend decided to look into it. Apparently, many of these individuals suffered brain damage (he says they’re “burnt”) due to a drug that was once widely used in the area. Now, they live in their own inner worlds, experiencing reality in a distorted, parallel universe.

Of course, I’ve seen children in Istanbul rummaging through bins, often due to poverty or addiction, but even so, they were still clinging to life, still part of reality. The people here, though, seem like beings from another planet — disconnected, wandering around stripped of the basic qualities of humanity.

In time, I’ll also talk about Montreal’s many beauties. But for now, in these first few days, what’s struck me most deeply are these strange, surreal human images I’ve encountered in this beautiful and wealthy country.