“Mom! Look at the mess we made!”
“I see that,” Valentina blinked a few times, still processing the chaos. “I really see it. And I can smell something that died tragically inside the oven.”
“It didn’t die,” I defended quickly, raising my hands in surrender. “It just… was born wrong.”
She didn’t laugh.
But her eyes betrayed that familiar mix of exhaustion and suppressed amusement—the one that always appeared whenever I did something too unexpected to fit the image she insisted on keeping of me… and hated to admit she still admired.
“I really wanted lemon cake, Mom,” Clara explained earnestly. “And Tio Enrico made it for me.”
“I see…”
“But we can’t eat it, Mom,” Clara warned seriously. “It must be really bad. But Mom—if anyone asks, we lie, okay?”
Valentina’s eyes immediately found mine, accusing.
I smiled, not ashamed in the slightest.
“Clara. Bath. Now,” Valentina said calmly. “After that, I’ll make an edible cake in this house.”
“But we tried!” Clara protested, still laughing.
Valentina sighed, shaking her head with an almost-smile.
“I can tell, sweetheart. You’re turning into a miniature version of your Uncle Enrico.”
She held out her hand, and Clara went to her immediately.
They started up the stairs, leaving me alone in the kitchen, surrounded by flour, smoke, and a strange pride that made my chest tighten in the best possible way.
Clara looked back over her shoulder and waved, satisfied, climbing the steps.
Valentina stopped halfway up the stairs and turned slowly toward me.
She looked over her shoulder with that unmistakable gleam of someone who wanted to scold—but couldn’t hide how much she was enjoying every second.
And then she said, her voice soft, sharp, and dangerously affectionate:
“Go take a shower. You too.”
And she disappeared down the hallway upstairs—taking with her the smile she thought I hadn’t seen, leaving behind the sweet, burnt scent of lemon…
…and my heart fuller than that damn cake pan that never rose.
Because she said it like an order.
But I heard it like someone almost saying,stay.
I went to my room with a foolish smile on my face, and the steam had already completely fogged the mirror by the time I stepped into the shower.
The hot water came down hard—almost aggressive—slamming against the white marble tiles, as if it were trying to wash away the mess inside my chest too.
It wasn’t enough.
It never was.
The same words that had made me smile now began to awaken a slow, aching pain.
