1
ANGELICA
The coffee burns my tongue, but I drink it anyway.
I stand at the counter in my Naples apartment and watch the moka pot steam while Sofia drags herself out of bed.
The radio plays Christmas carols from the station that loops the same fifteen songs all season long.
I hum along because the sound fills the silence and keeps my brain from wandering to places it has no business going.
Then I pour a second cup and check the time on my phone.
Seven fifteen.
Sofia has exactly twenty minutes before the bus arrives at the corner.
I call her name again, louder this time, and hear her groan from the other room.
She hates mornings.
She gets that from me.
Work today includes two video calls scheduled back to back.
One starts at ten with a German firm looking to expand into Italy.
The other happens at two with a French contractor who needs someone to translate building codes.
I interpret for businessmen who can't be bothered to learn each other's languages.
The pay arrives inconsistently, but it keeps us fed and hidden, which is all I care about.
Sofia appears in the doorway with her hair sticking up in every direction.
She wears her school uniform already, the white blouse wrinkled from sleeping in it last night.
The plaid skirt sits crooked on her hips.
Her brown eyes narrow at me with the kind of annoyance only a five-year-old can muster over something trivial.
"I don't know where my tights are," she announces.
I point to the laundry basket sitting by the door.
She huffs and marches over, yanking them out with a grunt of disapproval.
Then she disappears back into her room.
I hear her muttering something about the Christmas concert and how Lucia gets to be an angel with wings while she only gets to be a shepherd with a stick.
I smile despite myself.
She has strong opinions about everything, especially when she feels she's not getting what she deserves.
I finish my coffee and rinse the cup in the sink.
The thought occurs to me that Sofia will be six soon, just after the holidays.
