Jane’s eyes sparkle with pride.
“Of course you are. I’m so proud of you, Della.”
“Thank you.” I let out a quiet breath, half a laugh.
“I did work very hard for it—but it pretty much owns me now.”
Jane raises an eyebrow as she sets down her glass. “Sounds like you’re missing a life.”
She pauses, studying me for a moment longer than comfort allows. “Is there anything left of you, Della? Outside the job, I mean.”
There’s no judgment in her voice, only concern. The kind that lingers gently in the spaces between words.
I look down, turning the stem of my glass slowly between my fingers.
“Not really,” I admit, voice quiet. “Work fills up everything. It’s just easier that way, I guess.”
Jane leans in slightly. “And your family?” she asks, softer now.
I hesitate. “My dad moved to the countryside,” I say, picking my words. “After Mom… he wanted the quiet.”
Her face softens immediately. “I’m so sorry for your loss, Della. Your mom sounded amazing. I never met her, but from your stories… I know she was.”
“She was,” I say, barely above a whisper. “She held us all together.”
Jane doesn’t push. She just reaches over and rests her hand on mine—no words, just understanding.
After a while, she asks, “Your sister?”
“She got married and moved to Spain with her husband. They have a daughter now—Eleni.” I answer with a soft smile tugging at my lips. “She’s one. A beautiful little angel I hardly ever get to see. Everyone says she looks like me, especially when she gets her way.”
Jane beams. “That’s wonderful, Della. I’m happy for you both.”
Jane looks me in the eyes, and I can tell the next question will go deeper than the ones before.
“What about you? You were so in love back then. What happened to Dorian? You never mentioned him after you left. Did you two… keep in touch?”
The words land gently, but they hit like a stone to the chest and I can feel my throat tighten.
“Some distances are just too wide to cross,” I say quietly. But even as the words leave my mouth, something wavers inside me.
I'm not sure I believe it anymore.
I fall silent, tracing the rim of my glass with a finger. Then, voice low but steady, I add, “I don’t trust easily anymore.”
I look up and meet her eyes, offering a faint, wry smile.
“But I guess we all have our reasons.”
Jane watches me for a moment longer, her expression softening — but she doesn’t press. She’s always known when to hold silence instead of filling it.
I can’t bring myself to say more—not tonight. Not about what was lost, or about the things I still can’t face.
Instead, I do what I’ve always done—sidestep the pain and steer the conversation toward safer waters.
I ask about her sons and her documentaries.
Jane lights up immediately, her face animated as she talks about her latest film project and how busy the boys are—Andrew working abroad with his new girlfriend, Thomas completely immersed in his arts studies.
