I blink, then smile despite myself. “Noted.”
She finally takes the chair opposite me and tucks one leg under. “I was the baby of the family, so I don’t really remember the nursery, but I’m pretty good at planning.”
“I thought I was too,” I say, and the corner of her mouth tips.
She reaches for my notebook. I let her. She draws a little box next to my “glider” line and writes: outlet / table / water / burp cloths. Then, under “dresser,” she adds: drawer dividers, extra crib sheets, extra everything.
“Twice as many as you think,” she says. “Everything that can be puked on will be puked—or shat—on. Including you. So, more clothes for you too.”
A laugh escapes me. “Looking forward to it.”
“I’m very honest.” Her gaze flicks to the window, to the hedges beyond. “Also practical. The house crew will want to help. Let them. Tell Vivian what you need. She’ll make it happen by dinner.”
I nod, the relief embarrassingly sharp. “Thank you. I don’t know what I’m doing.”
“No one does,” she says. “People who pretend otherwise are lying.” She taps the notebook again. “But you’re already doing the thing that matters most. Caring.”
Silence fills the room for a moment.
She breaks it first. “Lucia would have loved this,” she says, so quietly I almost miss it.
I look up. She’s staring at the bare wall like it’s a screen playing something only she can see.
“She was great at the tiny stuff,” Caterina goes on. “The little rituals. She’d bring me stupid stickers when I had exams. Paint my nails while she quizzed me on dates for history. She remembered everyone’s favorite cake. After she left, the house got… loud and empty at the same time.”
She lifts a shoulder. “Papá was gone, and Mamma was… not the same. She lost her husband and daughter on the same day. Then she got sick. Vito got angrier, Nico got quieter. And then it was just me, trying to hold this damn family together.
“When Lucia left, she didn’t just… go. It felt like the heart of our home went with her. Lucia was… a force. She could make Vito sit down with a look. She could make my father laugh when no one else could. She remembered everything. Birthdays. Tests. The way you take your coffee.”
I picture the woman I met when I took over Luca’s case. The woman who was fiercely protective of her daughters, her husband, and I can see exactly what Caterina’s talking about.
“The day she left…” Caterina’s mouth tightens for a second, then relaxes. “I was thirteen. I stood in her doorway and thought if I wished hard enough, I could rewind it all. It didn’t work.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, and it feels useless because it can’t change anything.
“Papá said you’ve seen her,” Caterina says, meeting my eyes.
“She asked about you,” I say quietly. “About all of you. When I met with her.”
Her throat works. “She asked about me?”
“She did.” I hold her gaze. “I hadn’t met any of you yet, so I couldn’t really tell her much of anything.”
A breath leaves her, almost a laugh, almost a sob, and she tips her head back for a second like she’s steadying herself. When she looks at me again, her eyes are bright but dry. “Okay,” she says. “How was she?”
“She seemed…” I search for the right word. “Loved.”
Caterina nods once, slowly. “That’s something.” Another beat. Then, brisk again: “All right. Rug, eight by ten, at least. Don’t cheap out or it sheds.”
The pivot is so clean it makes me smile. “Bossy.”
“Efficient.” She stands and rubs her palms on her jeans. She starts walking backward to the door. “Thanks.”
“No problem,” I murmur, looking at the notepad.
“And Elena?” she says at the door.
“Hmm?” I glance up.
