It all began on the 23rd of February. He kept saying, “We have to leave, it’s not safe here.” But I knew my mother would refuse. I decided we would stay until the last possible moment.

That evening was anxious. We walked by the small lake near my old school, and I stopped. It was calm, like a mirror, reflecting the stars. I took a photo. It wasn’t very good, but I kept it. The next morning, it all began.

I begged my mother to pack, but she wouldn’t. The moment I had to leave her behind was filled with despair, and the fear that I would never see her again.

We drove on forgotten, terrible roads through fields and forests. I will never forget the endless red ribbon of tail lights stretching before us in the darkness—a winding river of light, all fleeing the war. On the roadsides were broken-down cars. Families who didn’t make it to safety.

I don’t know what’s worse—to stay, or to run and constantly think of your loved ones. I was always in the news, tracking the air raid alerts, texting my mother when they were over, terrified I would make a mistake and be too late.

Then, at the beginning of March, there was a heavy airstrike on the city center. My mother was scared. She called and said, “Daughter, I want to leave.”

My brother found volunteers in minutes. He called me: “Tell her to go outside immediately! A car is leaving in five minutes. There’s only one seat.” Until the very last moment, I didn’t believe I would ever see her again.