Then he turns to one page, marked with a little, pressed violet.
“Oh, a violet,” I say, touching it softly.
“She loved those, you know,” he murmurs. “She adored flowers.”
“Here, look,” he adds, pointing.
At the top of the page, in soft looping ink, it reads:
For my sons’ future families:
May they be loved.
May they be safe.
May they know sweetness.
My breath breaks.
An unmistakable sound escapes me, a stunned, aching gasp.
“Oh…” I lift my hand to my mouth. “Santo.”
His voice cracks when he speaks.
“She wrote that for you, Dea. I’m sure of it.”
The tears fall silently down my cheeks.
“I love it… but I can’t take it, Santo,” I whisper.
“Of course you can, she would have wanted you to have it.”
I sigh, my heart cracking open. “I’ll make her proud when I bake from this then. Thank you for finding it.”
He pulls me into his arms, holding me tight against his chest. “It belongs with you.”
I hug the book to me like something sacred.
When I finally lift my head, he smiles softly. “Your turn.”
I sniff hard, trying, and failing to look composed. “Mine… isn’t as emotional.”
He smirks. “We’ll see about that.”
I reach in to my nightstand drawer and hand him a small, flat wrapped package.
Red paper.
Green ribbon.
Obviously mine.
He arches a brow. “You wrapped this?”
“Why?”
“It’s perfect, I almost don’t want to ruin it,” he says before tearing into it.
