"Someone you knew. In a chair."
Her steps falter for just a moment. Then she recovers, pushing open the glass door that leads to the terrace.
"My grandmother." She holds the door, waiting for me to wheel through. "My mother's mother. She had a stroke when I was ten. Spent the last six years of her life in a wheelchair."
I roll past her onto the terrace. The gardens spread out before us, manicured hedges and stone pathways and the fountain she mentioned, water catching light as it arcs through the air.
"You were close to her."
"Very." Antonella falls into step beside me as I wheel down the ramp toward the garden path. "She lived with us after the stroke. My mother took care of her."
"And you helped."
She looks at me. Really looks, the way she did in the hallway. Like she's trying to see something beneath the surface.
"Yes," she says finally. "I helped."
We reach the garden path. Gravel crunches under my wheels, and I have to push harder to maintain momentum. She keeps walking, her pace steady, her presence beside me somehow... comfortable.
I don't understand it.
I don't understand her.
"The roses are this way?" She points toward a stone archway covered in climbing vines.
"Yes."
She heads toward it, and I follow. The path narrows slightly, and she moves ahead of me, her hips swaying with each step. The cream sweater rides up slightly, revealing a strip of skin at her lower back.
I look away. Force my eyes to the hedges, the flowers, the fountain in the distance.
My hands grip the wheels tighter, and I can't stop thinking about that dimple. That smile. The way she saiddo you want to join melike she actually wantedmethere.
Antonella
The rose garden is beautiful.
My grandmother's face keeps appearing in my mind. Her hands, gnarled and thin, gripping the wheelchair's armrests. Her voice, slurred but determined, telling me stories about the old country while I brushed her hair.
And then my mother. Always my mother.
She spent six years caring for Nonna. Bathing her, feeding her, changing her sheets in the middle of the night. Never complaining. Never asking for help from anyone except me.
I was sixteen when Nonna died. Eighteen when Mama followed.
The cancer took her fast. Three months from diagnosis to funeral. The doctors said it was aggressive, that there was nothing anyone could have done. But I know the truth. Six years of caregiving wore her down. Hollowed her out. Left nothing for the disease to fight.
My throat tightens.
I didn't need this reminder. Not today. Not when I'm already drowning in a new life I didn't choose.
Bruno wheels beside me, silent. His presence should feel oppressive. But somehow, having him here makes the memories less sharp.
I'm not alone.
That's all I wanted when I invited him. Company. A warm body nearby. Someone to fill the silence so my thoughts don't consume me.
I don't care if he likes me. I don't care if he ever speaks to me again after today. I just need to not be alone right now.
