“You just said everything I wanted to hear,” my mother says.
I still can’t take my eyes off Nero.
“But words are tricky things, aren’t they?” she continues. “I once told you, Nero—who my children kiss, sweetens my own mouth. Keep your promises and you’ll always have a mother in me. Break them, and I won’t hesitate to use my broom. You have no idea what a powerful weapon I can turn one into.”
I squeeze my eyes shut, equally embarrassed and moved by her not-so-subtle threat. Nero’s laughter reaches me before I can open them again.
“I’ll take the grandchild part,” he says.
“I thought you would,” she replies. “That seems like a sensible choice. Welcome to the Marchesi family.”
***
“May I come in?” my mother asks hours later, knocking on my open bedroom door.
It’s midday. She’s probably just come back from the shop for lunch. I’m surprised I didn’t hear her arrive—I was completelyabsorbed, trying to write the email withdrawing my application from the nursing programme.
“Of course, Mom,” I say.
She walks in carrying a small bundle of fabric.
“What’s that?” I ask.
She sits on my bed and pats the mattress beside her.
I get up from my desk chair and sit where she indicates. She places the little bundle on her lap and begins to untie the ribbon holding it together. When the fabric opens and I see what’s inside, my eyes burn instantly.
She lifts a pair of tiny baby shoes and places them in her palm.
“They were yours,” she says softly. “I brought this bundle with me when I came to Greece. Every time things got too hard—when I was too tired or wanted to give up—I opened it, smelled you, and remembered what I was fighting for.”
By the time she finishes the sentence, thick tears are already sliding down my cheeks.
“I know you didn’t plan this pregnancy, my daughter,” she says, lifting her eyes to mine. When she sees me crying, she uses her free hand to wipe my tears away. “But I also know the woman I raised. I know you’ll do everything for this child’s happiness, just like I did for yours. And no matter what, you can count on me.”
“Mom… pregnant women are naturally emotional,” I protest weakly, and she laughs, pulling me into a hug. When my sobbingsubsides, she takes my hand and opens it, placing the tiny shoes in my palm.
“They’re yours. For your baby. That’s why I kept them. I don’t know if everything will still fit, but I hope some of it will.”
I tilt my head, searching her eyes.
“Thank you,” I whisper, looking at her reddened eyes. “For everything.”
I don’t need to explain whateverythingmeans. I’m thanking her for the love, the companionship, the care. For never judging me, never pressuring me.
My chest tightens as I realise that if I’m even half the mother Rosa Marchesi is, the baby growing inside me will be incredibly lucky.
She kisses my forehead.
“Motherhood isn’t always the easiest kind of love, my daughter. Sometimes we’re forced to keep what we know and what we want to ourselves, so our children can discover and choose for themselves. That’s not always as simple as it sounds. Still, being a mother is the strongest way to love. You’ll find that out very soon. And you’ll understand that there will never be anything you need to thank me for.”
“I love you,” I whisper, wrapping my arms around her.
“Not more than I love you, my love. Not more than I love you.”
CHAPTER 37
NINA MARCHESI
