Another wall has built-ins, already decorated with a mix of personal and professional items. Classy black-and-white photos of family and friends dot the shelves and her desk.
Opposite the desk, two low armchairs in a textured oatmeal fabric face a round table big enough for laptops and coffee, small enough to keep conversations intimate.
A waist-high credenza runs along the side wall with an espresso machine and all the fixings, plus a small built-in fridge, filled with drinks to offer.
Every item is set precisely and deliberately. No coats thrown over chairs or scattered papers. It screams Caterina but doesn’t intimidate.
She closes the door behind us and heads to her desk. She picks up a pen and flips it between her fingers.
“On the other hand, Tio, you’re allowed to be human,” she says softly.
“I prefer being useful,” I say.
“You can be both,” she answers. “Useful and human aren’t opposites.”
“I’ve noticed they complicate each other.”
She tips the pen at me. “Only if you pretend one doesn’t exist.”
I exhale through my nose. “Duly noted.”
She drops the pen onto a legal pad and averts her eyes. I know Caterina as well as she claims to know me, so I know she’s working up to saying something.
She clears her throat. “I know it’s been a while since…” She looks down at the desk and clears her throat before meeting my gaze again. “Since Tia Maria.”
“Caterina—” I start, wanting out. Out of this room, out of this conversation.
“Let me finish,” she says. “Please.”
I don’t want her to, but she’s family. I gesture for her to continue.
She folds her hands. “I loved her. We all did. You know that.”
“I do.”
“I also know you built rules after,” she says. “Good ones. The kind that kept you standing.” She pauses. “But rules can calcify. Sometimes they start protecting you from the wrong things.”
“My rules are not the problem.”
“I didn’t say they were,” she answers, steady. “I’m saying, if you ever find yourself choosing loneliness because it feels safer than risk, that’s not a rule. That’s a scar that’s gotten too big.”
I look at the edge of her desk blotter. “Scars keep the skin together.”
“They do,” she says. “Until they start limiting your range of motion.”
“Why this speech? Why now?”
“Because you’re my uncle,” she says. “Because I want you whole. Before, I could ignore it. I understood that you couldn’t… try again. That Tia Maria was it for you.”
“She was,” I say stiffly.
“But now, I see that it’s not that you can’t move on,” she says, ignoring my words. “It’s that youwon’t.”
I hold her stare. “That’s a bold conclusion.”
“It’s an observation,” she says. “From someone who’s watched you choose the safest version of every fork in the road for years.”
“Safety keeps people alive.”
