She grips my chin, eyeing me intently. “You seem different. Glowing.”
I stiffen, avoiding her gaze, and she sighs. “I want you to be happy.”
“I am,” I quickly answer, this time not even lying.
She tilts her head, her voice softens in concern. “If we don’t live our authentic selves, we can never truly be happy.”
“I’m not Chiara.”
The lines in the corners of her eyes stretch, bearing the marks of her acquired wisdom. “Chiara is a warrior, Viviana. You’re the flower that adapts, breaking through cement and blooming despite the harsh conditions. Inside you lies a silent power that’s quite enviable.”
A small smile tugs at my lips at hearing that.
Ruckus ensues, the sound traveling up to the second floor.
“The warrior has arrived.” Nonna smiles, and I kiss her cheek, rushing downstairs.
My sister is a force, commanding attention. Chiara has it all and isn’t shy about letting everyone know she’s a happy wife, a fulfilled mother, and a successful jewelry company owner.
From the top of the stairs, I observe them interacting. It’s always with a certain coldness and distance.
My mother thrusts her arms out for her grandchild, and my sister hands Celia over. For a minuscule moment, I catch the longing there, but it disappears as soon as it appears.
“She looks just like you,” my father says, and Chiara’s spine stiffens.
“You mean perfect?” her husband says from behind her, his cold eyes fixing on my father.
Chiara tilts her head to him, grinning so brightly, I expect Cato to light up.
“She has your eyes though.”
“You loved them so much, our daughter took those from me.”
As they exchange a heartfelt moment, my mother fusses over the little one before my father takes her, his hard posture softening.
Chiara looks around, and when she notices me, she squeals. We take off, clashing in a big hug in the middle of the staircase.
“I’ve missed you. Come visit me more often,” she chastises me.
“Just this year left of college.”
She nudges my side, pride etched in her features. “Still the best in your class?”
“Of course.”
“So, no distractions?” She eyes me with a twinkle. It’s like she wants me to confirm.
“Chiara…” I try for a chastising tone, but fail.
She pouts. “No fun.”
She goes back to her husband and lifts onto her toes to smack his lips with a big kiss.
“After the meeting, I’ll pick you up.”
She nods and accompanies him out, where they kiss again, much to my father’s dismay, who mumbles, “No respect.”
“Amore,” my mother says as I approach them and tap my niece’s nose. At two years old, she’s the most beautiful little thing I have seen. I might be her aunt, but I am not biased.
