“What happens on Mondays?”
Diego rejoins the conversation with a natural curiosity in his question.
“You’re still doing that?”
“Doing what, Dr. Rossi?”
Diego leans toward the wall, trying to get a better look at Papà, who’s more concerned with eating, unbothered by us, despite him being the center of the conversation.
“Every Monday, he volunteers at the local high school, teaching basic chemistry to underprivileged kids or high school students interested in STEM. He’s done it ever since I was in high school,” I explain when Papà raises his index finger to make a point.
“Because why, cara?”
“Science should be accessible to everyone regardless of their socioeconomic status,” I repeat, as I have heard this argument a thousand times, mostly my mother’s, which I just now inherited as my own.
His quiet satisfaction after my repeated words linger in the air. He gives a slight nod, his attention returning to his food, clearly pleased I haven’t forgotten the lesson he’s instilled in me for years.
“That’s . . . actually pretty incredible,” Diego says, his gaze shifting to me briefly before returning to my father. “Not many people would take their time to do something like that.”
Papà shrugs, dabbing the corner of his mouth with his napkin.
“If I do not, who will? Education should not be a privilege.”
The simplicity of his words strikes harder than I expect, threading through the fabric of my guilt. I know exactly where my drive for teaching comes from, but I’ve buried it under layers of control and ambition.
He has always been driven by something purer. Sharing knowledge for the sake of it. He even does it for free, something I wouldn’t possibly consider.
My throat tightens. Diego shifts again. I catch his eyes on me. They soften, dark, and steady. I glance away, blinking at my half-eaten food. I am suddenly too aware of him and his possible judgment of how different my father and I are.
He’s an example of my ruling. Diego clears his throat, sitting up straighter, trying to fill the sudden silence.
“So, how do you teach them, Dr. Rossi? Just lectures or . . .”
“Ah, no. Science must be experienced, not merely told. I bring simple experiments. Chemical reactions they can see, touch, and smell. It lights up their faces when they realize they can create something. Even something small,” my father says with a glint in his eye. “Inspiration comes from creation.”
Diego nods slowly, absorbing the words, but I can tell he’s still sneaking glances at me. He’s too good at reading me.
“Maybe I should’ve had a teacher like you,” Diego mutters, half to himself. “Someone who loves experimenting.”
My father smiles faintly, but my mind is tangled in the heat prickling under my skin at his innuendo. I suddenly need this breakfast to end.
“Papà,” I start, my tone more controlled than I feel. “Are you sure you shouldn’t wait a few more days before going home? I can arrange my schedule?—”
“Dr. Isabella Rossi.”
His voice cuts through, firm but gentle. He rarely calls me by my title and full name. Something I feel I haven’t truly earned compared to the number of years of experience as his doctorate.
“I have lived longer than you have, and I know my limits. My body is healing, and my students need me.”
I deflate slightly, my argument slipping through my fingers. Diego adjusts the sleeves of his sweater up his forearms and pushes his plate away, having left some unfinished like myself.
“Do you need help before you go, Dr. Rossi?”
“No, no, Diego. You are a student, not a nurse.”
Papà waves him off, though not unkindly.
“Besides, my daughter worries enough for the both of us.”
