Mario’s shoulders tensed beside me, and I wanted to explain it was just harmless small-town nosiness, but Olivia had already grabbed both our hands with the authority of a tiny event coordinator.
“You have to stand right there,” she instructed, pointing to a prime viewing spot near the gymnasium entrance. “So I can see you when my class walks by. And Mario, you have to wave, not just nod. Waving is more supportive.”
“Got it,” he said solemnly. “Supportive waving.”
She ran off to join her classmates, leaving Mario and me standing among the other parents. I was hyperaware of everything—the careful distance we maintained, the way he shifted when Mrs. Benson from the school library approached us with that knowing smile.
“Lily, how wonderful to see you here with Mario,” she said warmly. “Olivia must be thrilled to have him supporting her.”
“Oh, we’re just—” I started.
“She talks about him constantly,” Mrs. Benson continued, oblivious to my discomfort. “How he taught her about aerodynamics, how he fixes things around your house. Yesterday she wrote a story for creative writing about a racecar driver who saves the day with a very sparkly car.”
I glanced at Mario, who had found something fascinating to study on the side of the building. A flush crept up his neck, and I wondered if he was thinking about that afternoon in my kitchen, surrounded by cardboard and glitter, teaching my daughter about drag coefficients like it was the most natural thing in the world.
“That sounds like Olivia,” I managed.
The parade started before Mrs. Benson could extract any more details about our “relationship.” Class by class, the costumed kids walked through the gymnasium, their excited chatter echoing off the high ceilings. When Olivia’s class appeared, she spotted us immediately, her whole face lighting up.
“That’s my mom and Mario!” she announced to anyone within a three-block radius. “Mario helped build my car! He knows about REAL racecars! He was a racecar driver!”
She gave us an enthusiastic wave that nearly sent her cardboard spoiler flying. Mario lifted his hand in return—a proper, supportive wave as requested—and Olivia practically glowed with pride.
Several parents turned to look at us with those knowing smiles I’d grown to dread. The ones that said they were already planning our engagement party and had opinions about whether we’d have a spring or fall wedding.
After the parade, Olivia dragged us to her classroom for the traditional juice-box-and-cookies reception. Mrs. Williams, her teacher, was waiting with the kind of smile that meant she had questions.
“Mr. Marrone,” she said warmly. “Olivia’s been telling us all about you. She says you’re teaching her Italian?”
“Just a few words,” Mario replied carefully, like he was navigating a diplomatic negotiation.
“Well, she taught the entire class how to count to ten yesterday. You’ve made quite an impression.” Mrs. Williams beamed. “The children are fascinated by your racing career.”
Olivia materialized at his side, tugging on his shirt with sticky fingers. “Mrs. Williams, tell him about the Family Heritage project!”
My stomach dropped to somewhere around my ankles. I’d completely forgotten about that project.
“Oh yes,” Mrs. Williams said, her eyes lighting up. “Next month, students will be presenting about their family traditions. Olivia’s very excited to include some Italian customs.”
“Because Mario’s going to be family,” Olivia announced with the confidence of someone stating an obvious scientific fact. “He’s part of our family now.”
The classroom went quiet. Not completely silent—kids were still chattering, juice boxes were still being slurped—but I felt every adult ear in the room tune in to our conversation. Mario’s jaw worked like he was trying to form words that wouldn’t come.
“Sweetheart,” I started, my voice climbing toward the panic register, “Mario’s very busy, and we shouldn’t assume?—”
“But he promised to help!” Olivia’s face started to crumble, her lower lip trembling in a way that usually preceded a total meltdown. “He said he’d teach me about Italian holidays and food and everything!”
The silence stretched. I could practically hear the other parents holding their breath, waiting to see how this would unfold. Mario looked trapped, caught between disappointing a seven-year-old and making promises he might not be able to keep.
Then something shifted in his expression. His shoulders straightened, and when he spoke, his voice was quiet but certain.
“I did promise,” he said. Everyone in earshot turned to look at him. “I promised to help with your project,piccola. And I will.”
Olivia’s face lit up like Christmas morning, and she threw her arms around his waist. Over her head, Mario’s eyes met mine, and I saw my own panic reflected there. We were in so deep, and it wasn’t just about us anymore. My seven-year-old daughter had woven him into her life with the complete faith that he would stay.
“Picture time!” Mrs. Williams announced, producing a camera from nowhere. “Let’s get one of Olivia with her family!”
Before either of us could protest, Olivia had arranged us for the photo—her in the middle, Mario and me flanking her like awkward bookends. As the camera clicked, capturing this moment of manufactured family perfection, I felt the weight of what we’d started pressing down on me like a wool coat in July.
