“I see.” Nonna’s gaze rakes over me. Assessing. “You did her hair.”
It’s not a question. It’s an accusation dressed as an observation.
“Yes,” I say, trying to sound confident. “She has beautiful curls.”
“Her mother had beautiful curls.”
Yeah. I got that memo.
Rosa walks back into the kitchen, but I barely notice.
“Jess taught me how to scrunch,” Ben offers. “And we used the wide-tooth comb. And brave breathing.”
“Brave breathing?” Nonna’s eyebrows go up.
Ben demonstrates. The hand squeeze. The slow inhale and exhale.
Nonna’s expression softens. “That’s very nice,cara.”
Then she looks at me again. “How long have you been working for Marco?”
“This is my third day.”
“Third day.” She repeats it slowly. Like she’s tasting the words. Finding them lacking. “And already you’re doing her hair.”
Is that bad?
Should I not have done hair?
Did I overstep?
My face is burning. I can feel the blush crawling up my neck.
“Ben’s hair needed care,” I say carefully. “I was happy to help.”
“Of course.” Another smile. This one doesn’t reach her eyes. “Tell me. Is this position permanent? Or temporary?”
Loaded question alert.
“We’re taking it day by day,” I hedge.
“I see.” Nonna tilts her head. Studies me through the screen. “And you know about Isotta?”
“I know she passed away. I’m very sorry for your loss.”
“She was my daughter.” Nonna’s voice cracks. “Irreplaceable.”
Message received loud and clear.
“I’m so sorry,” I say softly.
Ben is oblivious. She’s showing Nonna her breakfast bowl. Chattering about Frederick. About school. About the brave cocoa we made yesterday.
Nonna listens. Responds. But her judging eyes keep drifting back to me.
When the call ends, I feel like I’ve been through a deposition.
Ben hops down from her chair. “I’m going to get my backpack!”
