Ugly Girl
Copyright© 2026 by Han Jansz. van Meegeren
2. The Weight of Losing You
“This is Natasha de Groen,” she said cheerfully on the phone.
“Natasha, this is Zuzanna Sówka, a friend of Koen and Sylvia.”
“I remember you. We have seen each other on birthdays and such.” All the cheerfulness in her voice vanished instantly.
“Yes, well, the reason I’m calling is that I have some bad news to tell you. It is about Peter’s father. Is Peter in? Could I speak to him, please?”
“He is here, but I don’t know if he wants to speak to you.”
“Could you try to get him on the phone, please?” Hushed sounds in the background. They took their time.
“Peter de Groen speaking.”
“Peter, this is Zuzanna Sówka. I am afraid I have bad news for you. Your father is very ill. Doctors diagnosed him with a very aggressive form of cancer, and it’s so bad they have stopped treatment. He is on pain medication right now, and the doctors told us it’s probably a matter of days, not weeks, before he will pass away. Your visit would mean a great deal to him, especially as he’s expressed a desire to see you before it’s too late.”
“I will have to call you back about that.” It sounded cold. “Is your number...” He read my number from his screen. Stupid question. It was clearly my phone I used to call him, not my neighbour’s. I felt disappointed in him. Whatever the circumstances, if your father is dying and wants to see you, you go. If she had known I was calling, Sylvia would have fit. “Of course he needs to ask Nata’s permission to go!” she would say.
Just before I was about to get super mad, he called back. “If you could give me the name of the hospital, we will visit him sometime this week. On one condition. We do not want our mother or that slut he had to marry to be there.”
I counted to ten. “Your mother misses you as well, Peter.”
“Unfortunately, that is not mutual.”
“I see. I don’t think that anything they may have done to you justifies this behaviour. Your father is dying, son, and sometime this week might as well be too late. Get your head out of your ass and visit your father. And bring Alexander with you. A grandfather deserves to see his grandson before he dies.” I was furious at him; the phone shook so badly I needed two hands to hit that red button!
In the Netherlands, we have a saying: “Elk huisje heeft zijn kruisje”, roughly translated: Every house has to bear its own (invisible) cross. I never understood why Natasha and Peter were so upset after finding out his parents were in a BDSM-dominated polyamorous relationship. They were adults when they found out, not kids, and the sexual orientation of their parents was none of their business. Being upset for a while was not a problem, but keeping your son away from their grandparents was something else entirely. I bit my tongue and didn’t call him back to give him a piece of my mind.
With or without an army uniform, Sandor, Sylvia and Koen’s second child, is in control of any situation that might occur. Jutta says he looks like his dad. He doesn’t. He is more decisive, more masculine and more stringent. Koen may be a wonderful man, but he is always thinking of other people first. A prime example is this giving away his women thing. He is in pain and is going to die soon, but he isn’t asking people to comfort him. He wants to ensure that these women, for whom he feels responsible, will be in a good place once he’s gone.
With someone in the hospital, life is hectic. Jutta and Sylvia are in the hospital all day; Ilse is in Amsterdam for her psychology study, and Sandor is at work on the Navy base in Groningen. To ease some of the stress, I offered to cook for them. First occasionally, after it became clear Koen would probably have to stay in the hospice until —, well, until he died, I was there almost daily.
I was the only one who knew all of Sylvia’s secrets. All of those she wrote in her confession book ‘Bad Girl’, and a couple she didn’t write about. Observing Sandor’s mounting tension didn’t surprise me. His mother and mother-in-law, still in the clothes they wore from their hospital visit, met his gaze with an expression that suggested Koen had already passed away. Ilse, however, more than made up for the quiet moments; her excited chatter about what happened in class today: a constant, bubbly stream.
“Girl and Little One, in the corner. Now!” Sandor’s voice cut like a knife through their silent mourning.
Without a second thought, both ladies stood up from the table and found opposite corners in the kitchen, facing the wall.
“Hands behind your back.” He sighed. “I know this is hard for you, and it’s hard for all of us. Not wearing your slave robe in your Master’s house is unacceptable for both of you. He may not be here, but it’s your duty to act as if he is.”
Sandor waited a moment and looked at me. I nodded. I have seen weirder things in this house.
“Why do you still wear these outdoor clothes? Undress!”
Both of them hurriedly took off their clothes. Ilse wanted to sink to her knees and crawl under the table. But Sandor stopped her with a hand gesture. Both my best friend and her Mistress were in the nude now. Sylvia had a big, ugly rose tattooed on her back. She once gave me a book that would tell me all about this tattoo, but it was some weird science fiction book, and I am not at all fond of SF, so I never got very far.
Both women looked good for their age, not an ounce of fat where it didn’t belong, and with a butt that was firm and didn’t look like a moonscape. Neither of them looked visibly tense; their folded hands resting relaxed on their buttocks.
“Little one. Get both of your slave robes. You have one minute. Go!”
Jutta flew out of the kitchen, doubtless unaware of her boobs dancing right before my eyes. All she concentrated on was returning to the kitchen in time.
“Why?” I asked Sandor. “What is suddenly so important is that she is nearly breaking her neck to return to the kitchen in time.”
“Great question. Ilse, why don’t you answer it?”
Ilse looked straight at me. “She is trying to please my Master.”
Duh, stating the obvious. Jutta came back panting, with two white linen pieces of cloth in her hands.
“Make sure Girl is dressed before you get yourself ready. Return to your position when you are done.” The ‘dress’ was nothing more than a long, rectangular piece of white linen with a hole in it for the head. A piece of red rope kept it together at waist level. Even I could see it looked sexy, but I suspected sex was the last thing on their minds. Both women clearly had no objection to being treated this way, so I was kind of curious where this might lead.
“This is the third day in a row you have eaten only a few bites from the delicious meal that Zuzanna has made for us. She has been busy all afternoon making delightful meals for you girls, and not eating them is to me an insult to the cook. Ilse, grab their plates and put the food in a bowl.”
Ilse scraped the meat, baked potatoes, carrots, and peas off the plate into a bowl. “Puree it completely and put it back in the bowl. Put it on the floor in their corners.”
I remember well that as a child, Sandor refused to eat pureed vegetables. Jutta and Sylvia did not have that luxury because they could not leave their corners until the bowl was empty and licked clean. They could use their hands just to hold the metal bowl in place as they sucked and licked their bowls empty. This was not the first time I had seen them eat like this. You and I would take forever to eat without the use of utensils or even your hands. Eating with just your lips and tongue takes practice.
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