When I finish, I walk to the box Alexander gave me and pull out the essay Maya wrote. Not the Maya I knew. But the child who was pulled into all of this long before she had a choice.
I return to the bed, sit beside Alexander, and hand him the paper without explanation. While he reads in silence, every line replays inside me from memory, and I can’t stop the tears anymore.
Alexander stands, gently places the paper back inside the box, and returns to the bed. When he sits, he pulls me into his arms and lets me cry.
And I cry for what I hope is the last time. Releasing everything this has ever taken from me, freeing myself from all I’ve carried for far too long.
Alexander
I watch Cecilia sleeping peacefully beside me.
One of her hands is tucked beneath her cheek; the other rests over my chest. As if, even in sleep, some instinct inside her knows where to return. As if part of her will always seek me out.
Last night, when she finally calmed down, she asked if we could shower together. I went back to the car to grab one of the bags sitting in the trunk from my return from Pisa yesterday.
For the first time, there was nothing sexual about it. The water cascaded over our skin, and she simply stood there while I washed her hair, traced careful lines down her back, soothed her with touch alone.
It wasn’t desire or need. Just a woman drawing comfort from the care of the man who loves her.
When we were finally ready for bed, I pulled her into my arms. Cecilia was asleep within minutes. I kept stroking her hair long after her breathing evened out, waiting for the same peace to reach me. But it never did. I barely slept.
Everything she told me keeps replaying in my head. Over and over. I never thought I was capable of hatred.
I already hated that coglione for what he did to her, but now? Now I’m well past that. I despise Colin and her father, and I’m just as disgusted with her mother. I can’t stand the way she looked the other way just to keep her life easy. She chose her own comfort over the truth, and that makes her just as much to blame as they are.
I don’t understand it. How people who lived beside Cecilia for years—people who were meant to protect her, cherish her, love her—could fail her like this. How they could look at someone so gentle, so loyal, so endlessly giving... and still choose themselves.
How does she remain the woman she is? How has she not let all of this twist her into someone unrecognizable?
She deserved better. She still does.
And as long as she is beside me, I will make damn sure she never has to carry any of this alone again.
I touch her face gently. She looks so fragile like this. So delicate. But I know the strength that lies beneath that delicacy. After yesterday, I am even more in awe of her.
I carefully rest her hand on the mattress and press a light kiss to her forehead, murmuring against her skin.
“Never again.”
Never again will I let anyone hurt her. I will die before I allow a single one of them to touch her with their ugliness.
Feeling the blood simmering in my veins, I decide to get up and make something for Cecilia. After a quick stop in the bathroom, I pull on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt before heading downstairs.
I know Alicia stayed at her father’s last night and will go straight to school from there, but I prefer not to take any chances.
When I reach the kitchen, I open the fridge and decide to make her favorite breakfast. Eggs, French toast topped with red berries, and strong black coffee, no sugar. Exactly the way she likes it. The way we both do.
Once everything is ready, I arrange it on a tray and head back upstairs.
Setting the tray on the desk, I look over at the canvas on the wall before I wake her.
I don’t even stop to think. I just grab a Sharpie and walk over. I take my time with it, making sure every letter is perfect.
“Why am I waking up to the sight of you vandalizing my canvas?” Cecilia’s sleepy voice murmurs behind me, just as I finish the last word.
I chuckle and turn toward her, smiling. I extend my hand. When she takes it, I gently pull her to her feet and guide her toward the canvas.
When we stop in front of it, her eyes trace the words I’ve written.
