This was my mother’s life, thoughts, and truths—perhaps the only key to understanding what had been left unspoken.
I exhaled, hesitating.
“Are you all right?” Emily questioned.
“What?” I glanced up, pulled from my thoughts.
“You’ve gone white as a ghost.” Her brows knit together. “Are you sure you want to do this?”
I nodded solemnly. “Yes. I’m ready.” I paused, then admitted, “And yet… I’m uncertain. I’m just glad you’re here.”
I reached for her.
She squeezed my hand briefly before letting go. “That’s right. I’m here for you—for support or whatever you need.”
Reassured by her presence, I inhaled deeply and skimmed the pages.
Some entries were marked with tiny stars, denoting importance. Others had underlined words, bold against the aged parchment in my mother’s neat handwriting.
Then, nestled between the pages, I found something unexpected—a photograph.
I carefully pulled it free and stared at the frozen moment in time.
A birthday. My birthday.
There I was—a little girl, grinning at a table where a white-frosted cake sat before me, pink and green candied horses galloping across the top.
Beside me, my father smiled, content. And next to him, my mother, her gaze soft, lingering not on the cake but on me.
Beneath the photo, a note in her handwriting:
Olivia, my sweet darling. I’m sorry for everything. I hope you’ll understand someday.
A lump formed in my throat. My vision blurred as tears burned the backs of my eyes.
Emily plucked the photo frommy fingers.
She turned it over, frowning. “What is this? It looks like you as a child, but… it’s not painted.”
I blinked, forcing myself back to the present. “It’s called photography. It’s similar to a camera obscura but captures the image permanently using film.”
Emily gasped, studying the details with wonder. “Oh, my! It’s so lifelike. So real. You were a beautiful little girl.”
“Thank you,” I reached for the picture, tucking it carefully back between the pages before flipping to the next entry.
My mother’s neat, flowing handwriting filled the page, every word inked in Italian.
“You’re fluent, right?” I asked, glancing at Emily.
She nodded.
“And so we proceed,” I said solemnly, my stomach knotting as I prepared to decipher my mother’s words.
June 1, 1556
I have had a week of more exciting nights than I’m used to. Tonight, I’ve been invited to a masquerade at the estate of Pietro Costa, father of Raul Costa. Everyone will be there; it promises to be a night to remember. I’ll wear an off-white lace dress with delicate straps that fall off my shoulders. It cinches perfectly at my waist, making me feel dainty and graceful. When I spin, the skirt billows beautifully around me. Tomaso, who is much older than me, tells me I should be with boys my own age. But I tease him, saying that sixteen-year-old boys are like baby sharks—they chew off the fins of their lovers! This makes him laugh, and he tells me how much fun I am. Then he invited me to meet him at his home tomorrow. I can hardly wait.
I fought the urge to cringe.
