I grabbed my phone and googled his name. There were several links. I clicked through them as I waited for the bus to arrive, but didn’t find anything that helped. So I went to Instagram, hoping I would find his account.
I looked through dozens of photos before finding one with a profile photo that caught my eye. It was him. He was older, more mature looking, with a stubbly beard that hardened his features. But the eyes were the same: alive, awake, childlike. So similar to mine that I couldn’t help but tell myself:This is him.
I grunted when I saw the account was private. But there was still some information there under his name:
Giulio Dassori
Scuola di Balletto Giselle
Sorrento
I got on the bus. It was packed with passengers, and I had to tuck my phone away to squeeze in. All I could think about the whole time was Giulio. I wondered if that school was his. If he worked there. If he had a family. A wife. Kids. My mind was like a pressure cooker about to explode. I wasn’t used to feeling this way. Uncertain. Scared. Free. Because I was now: free, completely free, and I didn’t know to do with that freedom when my entire life I’d been ordered around and obedient to routines and schedules and someone telling me what to do and when, where, and how to do it.
I got home a little past eleven.
My grandparents and my uncle were arguing in the living room. That’s all they had done for the past three days, and it always had something to do with me.
I scurried down the hall and locked myself in my room. Leaning against the door, I looked at the bare walls and empty shelves and drawers. There was nothing left of me in there, just a sad suitcase, a handbag, and a pile of clothes. It was the most depressing thing I’d ever seen. Almost as depressing as the idea that in a matter of hours, I’d have to leave my home, and I still had no idea where to go.
I sat on the bed and took out my phone. Looking for Giulio’s school, I found a public account with a bunch of photos. He wasn’t in any of them. There was an address, though, and I memorized it.
I thought of my mother. She had always been hard to talk to. But I needed to do it now. I dialed her number, and it rang several times before going to voicemail. I fretted a few seconds then sent her a message.If you knew who my father was, you’d tell me, right?
A few seconds later, I saw she’d gone online and the message was marked as read. I could feel myself shaking as she started to write back. For a moment, there was nothing, then she resumed. I waited and waited, then finally gave up: She wasn’t going to respond.
There had been a time, long ago, when I’d told myself nothing she could do or not do would ever hurt me ever again. That was a promise I made to myself, but I never managed to keep it. At best, I half succeeded at putting her out of my mind.
But now, looking at the screen, I hated her more than ever.
In the living room, they were still arguing, and I was starting to feel trapped. My chest hurt, just under my sternum. I was struggling to breathe, and my whole body was shivering as if I’d been locked in a refrigerator. But I wasn’t cold; I was hot all over. I felt something like an electric shock.
I stood, grabbed all the clothes I’d left on the chair, and stuffedthem into my suitcase. The door opened, and my uncle walked in. He looked irritated. His chin raised, he tossed something at me, an envelope that landed on top of my open suitcase. Why did everybody treat me that way, like even talking to me was some kind of burden?
“Just so you know, I’m not on board with this,” he said bitterly. “When I was your age, I made my own living and nobody did a thing for me. I don’t know why he’s so soft on you. If it was me…”
His voice trailed off. Unsure what he was talking about, I grabbed the envelope and felt the blood draining from my face when I saw there was money inside.
“This is for me? Why?”
“Ask your granddad. But if I was you, I wouldn’t take it.”
He walked out furiously, and the shouting in the living room resumed. It was just my grandmother and uncle at first, repeating over and over that Grandpa was a fool for what he’d done.
He replied, “It’s my money, and I’ll do as I want with it. I’m not going to leave Maya high and dry.”
“You do know you have other grandchildren who deserve to be treated equally?” my uncle asked him.
“I do. Or do you think I don’t know that your mother paid for your two children’s driving lessons? Or the down payment for that new car you didn’t need?”
“Since when do I have to ask you for permission to help out our children?” my grandmother interrupted him.
“Then why should I ask you for permission to help out my granddaughter?”
“Are you serious? After all she’s done!” his wife said.
“What has she done, Olga? When are you going to realize you can’t live through other people, expecting them to make your dreams come true and destroying them in the process? First it was Daria, then it was Maya… Who’s next?”
“Dad!” My uncle cried out.
