From the mouths of babes.
“You’re right,” I admitted. “It shouldn’t be complicated.”
She studied me with those too-wise eyes. “Did you love him, Mom?”
The question hung in the air between us. I could lie, try to minimize this, pretend it was all pretend, anyway. But she deserved better than that.
“Yeah, baby. I did.”
“Does he know?”
“It doesn’t matter now.”
“Maybe if you told him?—”
“Olivia, sometimes love isn’t enough. Sometimes people have other things that are more important to them.”
She processed this terrible adult truth, her face cycling through confusion, anger, and finally something that looked disturbingly like acceptance.
“Is he gone forever? Like my dad?”
“I don’t know,” I said honestly.
She nodded slowly, then walked to the kitchen table where her heritage project sat. With careful, deliberate movements, she picked up the section about Italian traditions and tore it cleanly in half.
“Olivia—”
“I’ll do it about Grandma’s Irish family instead,” she said, her voice flat. “At least they stayed in the same country.”
She walked to her room and closed the door—not a slam, just a quiet click that somehow sounded worse.
I stood in my living room, staring at the torn posterboard on the floor. Scattered across my kitchen table were the remnants of her research. Printed pictures of Italian Christmas traditions, her careful notes about the Feast of Seven Fishes, and a list of Italian words Mario had taught her written in her best handwriting.
My phone rang. Ben.
“Don’t hang up,” he said immediately.
“I’m hanging up.”
“He’s a mess, Lily. He’s been sitting in the cottage all morning staring at that pipe cleaner ring like it holds the secrets of the universe.”
“Good for him.”
“He wants to explain?—”
“There’s nothing to explain. He got a job offer. He’s taking it. End of story.”
“But what if he stayed?”
“He won’t.”
“But what if?—”
“Stop.” My voice cracked. “Please. Just stop. Let me mourn this fake relationship that felt too real. Let me figure out how to help my daughter trust people again. Let me put my life back together without Mario Marrone in it.”
I hung up before he could argue.
The house settled into an uncomfortable quiet. No sound came from Olivia’s room. No messages from Mario—I’d blocked his number at 3 AM in a moment of self-preservation. No normal weekend bustle.
