So, I did what I always did when my world fell apart. I cleaned.
I reorganized the spice rack alphabetically, then by frequency of use, then by color. I scrubbed the kitchen counter until it gleamed. I folded laundry with military precision, creating perfectly aligned stacks that would make a drill sergeant proud.
I was in the bathroom, attacking the grout between the tiles with a toothbrush and the kind of focused intensity usually reserved for defusing bombs, when my mother arrived.
“Oh, honey,” she said, taking in the scene—me on my knees, surrounded by cleaning supplies, probably looking slightly unhinged.
“I’m fine.”
“You’re scrubbing grout with a toothbrush. That is not the definition of fine.” She gently pried the brush from my death grip. “Where’s Olivia?”
“In her room. She destroyed her heritage project.” My voice wobbled. “The Italian part, anyway.”
“Oh, sweetheart.”
“I did this, Mom. I let her get attached to someone I knew was temporary.”
“You let yourself get attached too,” she said gently. “That’s not a crime.”
“Feels like one.”
She pulled me into a hug that smelled like her signature perfume and the cinnamon candles she burned year-round—comfort in olfactory form.
“Love always feels like a crime when it ends badly,” she said. “Doesn’t mean it wasn’t worth it.”
“Right now, it doesn’t feel worth it.”
“I know.” She pulled back, studying my face with maternal concern. “Patricia Downs is telling everyone she saw this coming from day one.”
“Of course she is.”
“I may have accidentally knocked over her apple display at the grocery store this morning.”
“Mom!”
“What? My cart has a wonky wheel.” Her smile was pure innocence. “Happened four times before I noticed.”
Despite everything, I laughed. It was watery and small, but real.
“June’s stopped by three times since seven AM,” Mom continued. “I told her you’d gone to visit your cousin in Detroit.”
“I don’t have a cousin in Detroit.”
“She doesn’t know that. Should buy you a few days before she sets up camp on your doorstep with interview questions and a casserole.”
A soft knock interrupted us. Olivia stood in the doorway, clutching the pipe cleaner ring.
“Mario left this,” she said quietly. “Do you want to keep it or throw it in the trash?”
I looked at the ridiculous ring, still shedding glitter like tiny tears, somehow representing everything that had gone wrong.
“What do you think we should do with it?” I asked.
She considered this with the seriousness of a Supreme Court justice. “Maybe keep it for a while. In case we want to remember the good parts later.”
“What good parts do you want to remember?”
“When he taught me about car stuff. When he spent four hours helping me with my costume.” She paused, twisting the ring. “When he made you laugh so hard at dinner that you snorted milk out your nose.”
