“Go take a shower. You too.”
That was exactly the kind of thing she used to say before—different tone, different smile, an entirely different story.
“Hurry up, Enrico, or I’ll use all the hot water myself.”
“Want me to wash your back?”
“Stay. Just a little longer.”
I closed my eyes under the hot spray, letting the water run over my face, my chest, as if it could wash away the memories that refused to stop surfacing.
The image of Valentina laughing with me, completely soaked, sliding against the shower wall while accusing me of being terrible with liquid soap came back as vividly as a punch to the gut.
She always laughed with me in the shower. Always teased me with that light smile, those bright eyes—like she knew exactly the effect she had on me.
And now…
Now there was only silence, cold white tiles, and the brutal certainty of what I had lost.
I rested my forehead against the cool wall, water running down my back, soaking my neck—trying uselessly to erase the smell of burnt cake, the bitter taste of longing, the guilt that clung to my skin like badly rinsed soap.
There was still flour stuck in my hair. Dried batter between my fingers.
And a four-year-old daughter who—somehow—still believed her father was some kind of hero.
And that hero wasn’t me.
He didn’t even have a face yet.
She had no idea that for years—long, cowardly years—that same father hadn’t even had the courage to exist for her.
I exhaled deeply, staring at the vast, luxurious bathroom.
It was big. Beautiful. Spacious. The kind that could easily hold two—maybe four—people.
But in that moment, it felt larger than ever.
Larger and emptier. Colder.
Because what was missing there was exactly what had been missing from every corner of my life since the mistake I would never forgive myself for:
Valentina.
And that damnstaythat never came back.
***
I went downstairs slowly, my hair still damp, clinging lightly to the back of my neck. My T-shirt stuck faintly to my skin as the fresh scent of shampoo mixed with the soft, inviting aroma drifting from the kitchen.
Vanilla and lemon.
I stopped at the doorway.
And there she was.
Valentina stood with her back to me, stirring a bowl with focused concentration. Her shoulders were tense, her hair tied up carelessly, exposing the delicate line of her neck. The warm yellow kitchen light cast soft shadows over her bare legs beneath her short shorts.
She turned the instant she sensed me.
