“That was embarrassing.”
“That was the best.” She looked up at me. “When he looked at you like you were made of chocolate cake.”
“You and that chocolate cake comparison,” I said, pulling her into my lap.
“June said it was ‘visceral and evocative.’”
“June needs to stop teaching you SAT words.”
“June needs to stop a lot of things,” my mother muttered, but she was smiling.
Olivia played with the ring, glitter transferring to her pajamas like fairy dust. “Mom, are we going to be okay? Without Mario?”
“Yeah, baby. We were okay before him. We’ll be okay after him.”
“But we were better with him,” she said simply.
I couldn’t argue with that. We had been better. Lighter. Happier. Like someone had turned up the brightness on our little life.
“Sometimes better is temporary,” I said.
“That’s really sad.”
“Yeah, it is.”
She leaned against me, and we sat there—three generations of Sage women processing another disappointing man. Though that wasn’t entirely fair to Mario. He’d never promised forever. He’d been honest about his plan to leave from the beginning. I was the one who’d started believing in something that was never real.
“I’m going to finish my heritage project,” Olivia announced suddenly. “About great-great-grandma O’Brien’s family. But I’m keeping one Italian word.”
“Which one?”
“Famiglia. It means family.” She looked up at me with those earnest brown eyes. “Because even if Mario’s leaving, he was still our family for a little while. That counts for something, right?”
My mother made a soft, wounded sound. I saw her dab at her eyes with a tissue.
“That’s perfect, baby,” I managed around the lump in my throat.
That evening, after Olivia was tucked in bed and my mother had gone home with promises to “handle June” if she showed up unannounced again, I sat on my front porch despite the October chill.
The neighborhood was quiet, with porch lights glowing orange, carved pumpkins grinning from every stoop. Normal people were inside, probably watching movies or planning their week. Tomorrow I’d have to venture out into the world of pitying looks and whispered conversations.
A car approached slowly, and for one stupid moment, my heart jumped. But it was just Gary from the hardware store, probably doing his neighborhood watch rounds and checking to see if I was having a visible breakdown on my porch.
I wasn’t. Not visibly, anyway.
My phone buzzed with a text from an unknown number.
I know you blocked me. I deserve that. But please know that leaving isn’t about you or Olivia. You’re everything I never knew I wanted. I just don’t know how to be what you need. You deserve someone who knows how to stay.
I stared at the message for a long moment, then deleted it. But the words lingered, settling somewhere uncomfortable in my chest.
Maybe he was right. Maybe we did deserve someone who knew how to stay.
But that didn’t make it hurt any less that he wasn’t that person.
Inside, I picked up the pipe cleaner ring one more time. It was losing its shape now, bent from being carried around, more silver wire than pink polish. But somehow it was still perfect in its imperfection.
I tucked it into my jewelry box—not throwing it away, not leaving it out as a daily reminder, just keeping it safe somewhere. In case Olivia was right.
