Gratitude—raw and overwhelming—because Mom is getting the care she needs. Care I could never afford on a teacher's salary. Care that might buy her weeks or months of dignity and comfort.
But also anger. Fury at being managed. At having yet another decision about my life made without my input. At being reminded that I'm still the woman who needs saving.
"Miss Mancini?" Patricia touches my arm. "Are you alright?"
"Fine, yes, I’m sorry." I force a smile. "Thank you for letting me know."
I return to Mom's room and sit beside her bed. She's dozing, her chest rising and falling in that too-shallow rhythm. I watch her sleep and try to sort through the tangle of emotions choking me.
After a while, her eyes open.
"You're still here," she says softly.
"Of course, I am."
She studies my face with that particular intensity only mothers possess. "You look different."
"Different how?"
"Older. Sadder." She squeezes my hand weakly. "But also... lighter somehow. Like something heavy finally lifted."
I don't know how to respond to that.
"Tell me about him," she says.
"About who?"
"We both know I’m speaking about Dante." Her eyes—still sharp despite the morphine haze—find mine. "He’s the one who authorized all this care, isn’t he? The man you love."
My throat closes. "Mom?—"
"Let’s not sugarcoat it, sweetheart, I'm dying. Don't waste our time together pretending." Her smile is gentle. Sad. Knowing. "I notice things. The way you touch that cross when you talk about your days. The way tension and warmth live together in your shoulders now. The way you look at your phone like you're waiting for something. You're in love."
The statement hangs between us.
I want to deny it. Want to deflect and change the subject and protect myself from the vulnerability of admitting the truth. Want to keep this part of my life separate from her—clean and uncomplicated by the mess I've made.
But she's right. She's dying. And if there's anyone in the world I owe honesty to, it's her.
"It's complicated," I say finally.
"Love usually is."
"He's... not what I expected. Not what I planned for." I stop, searching for words that won't sound insane. How do I explain Dante? The violence and the tenderness. The control and the care. The way he makes me feel owned and cherished at the same time. "He's dangerous. Really dangerous. The kind of man I should run from."
"But you're not running."
"No."
"Why not?"
"Because he sees me. All of me. Even the parts I tried to hide. Even the parts I'm ashamed of. And he stays anyway." The confession cracks something open in my chest. "He doesn't try to fix me or save me or make me into something I'm not. He just...accepts me. Fights for me. Chooses me. Because I want him just as badly.”
"Then he's a good man."
"I don't know if 'good' is the right word."
"Good enough for you. That's what matters. I liked him, you know this." She coughs, and I reach for her water cup. She sips carefully and clears her throat. "Does he make you happy?"
