She's just shown off her precious son.
Next to her is my baby sister, Catalina, dressed in a pink dress that makes her look like a doll—mother's next project.
We make our way to the back again, and my mother and my sister are waiting for me.
"Enzo!" Lina beams at me, letting go of mother's hand to come running towards me.
I take her in my arms and swing her around, softly kissing her brow.
"I still can't believe she didn't give you the main role. I'll have to talk to her," mother grumbles under her breath, and I sigh deeply, not wanting to be involved in another conflict.
"It's fine. I didn't want the main role," I tell her, hoping for once she'd listen to me and drop it.
"If only your father weren't so against it"—she makes a tsk sound as she stares at my face—"you'd be the face of every modeling ad. With your sister next to you"—she shakes her head, the disappointment clear on her face—"you'd take the country by storm."
It's not the first time I've heard mother say this. Since I was old enough to understand adult talk, I'd realized that my mother had great aspirations for herbeautifulchildren. She'd wanted to take us to Hollywood, get everyone to stare at us like we're objects, not humans. But of course, her dreams had been quickly quashed by my father, who'd have none of it.
That didn't stop Mother from taking us everywhere with her as her little dolls.
We head back home, and I hurry to my room, the events of the day already taking a toll on me.
Going to the bathroom, I look at myself in the mirror, wondering what exactly causes everyone to obsess over my face.
Lifting my hand, I trace the contours of my face, looking for any imperfection, but finding none.
What if I had one?
What if I weren't so perfect? Would people stop staring at me? Maybe this could solve all my problems.
I don't even think as I clench my hand in a tight fist, directing it straight at the mirror. It doesn't break, not immediately. But as I keep hitting it, small shards make their way onto the floor.
Wincing from the pain in my hand, I focus all my energy on a piece of glass. Picking it up, I bring it to my cheek.
One slash.
And I'd stop being so perfect.
I'm about to dig the sharp end into my skin when my mother bursts into the room and slaps it out of my hand.
"What are you doing?" she screeches at me, her eyes wide with horror. I don't react when she starts hitting me—always my body, never my face. I just let her do it until she tires of it.
"Don't you dare do that again!" she keeps repeating, and even though I nod at her words, I know Iwilldo it again the moment I can.
I don't know if it's my expression that's not convincing enough, but she adds something that gives me pause.
"Every cut you make to your face, I'll do the same to your sister. Do you want her to be ugly and scarred? Do you want her to cry in pain? Because of you?" I look into my mother's eyes, hoping it's all a joke.
It's not.
"I won't do it again," I say in a small voice, convinced shewillmake good on her threats.
"Good. Now come, let Maria clean you up." She hands me over to my nanny and leaves the room.
My mother comes back later, like I knew she would. This sort of behavior doesn't go unpunished.
"You know I can't just let you be," she explains, her expression stoic as she regards me.
I nod.
