“I’ll wait here,” he assures me and then gently adds, “Unless you want me with you.”
I hesitate. The truth rises before I can stop it. “I want you with me.”
He nods. There’s no triumph in his expression, no relief—only the quiet acceptance that I want him beside me, holding my hand as I go to see the man who, in more ways than Duca Alighieri ever has been, is my true father.
Inside, the afternoon light spills across Matteo’s pillow, gilding the deepened lines of his face. He’s thinner than I remember, his breath shallow but steady.
Oh God! He’s really ill. He’s going to leave me, too.
When he sees me, his eyes brighten.
“Ah! There you are.” He smiles with satisfaction. “And you brought the tall one,” he adds, eyes flicking to Nico, who nods politely.
My husband stays near the door, hands loose at his sides—present but unobtrusive. He’s here for me, not Matteo; he’s making that clear, and somehow that’s cleansing.
I sit beside Matteo on his bed. “So, what’s this I hear about you not feeling well?” I manage to sound light when all I want to do is burst into tears.
“Ah at my age, you know how it is.” He holds his hand out, and I place mine in his. “I have missed you,bambina mia.”
He used to call me that when I was little. It’s been a long time since he’s addressed me that way.
“I’m angry with you,” I say, still keeping it casual.
“I know.” He squeezes my hand, the pressure barely there.
He doesn’t have much strength left.
The cancer spread quickly, and by the time they found it—his housekeeper told me—it was already too late. There was nothing to be done.
“But I’m here now,” I tell him, letting the hurt go because it’s pointless. Matteo is alive now, and I want to make the most of the time I have with him.
“Good,” he murmurs, his eyes closing.
He falls asleep. I sit beside him for a while, keeping watch.
The nurse comes by quietly and tells me he’s drifting in and out; that this is just how it is now. He’s on heavy painkillers—palliative care—meant to keep him as comfortable as possible as the body begins its slow letting go.
I step out of his bedroom, closing the door softly behind me.
The latch barely clicks into place before my legs give way.
Nico catches me before I hit the floor, but the force of it takes us both down.
He holds me on the cool tile as sobs tear out of me—harsh, uncontrollable anguish finally finding its voice. My chest aches, my breath stutters, my hands clutch uselessly at his shirt as if I might fall apart without something solid to hold on to.
“Oh God…Nico. Oh God,” I sob, the words breaking into pieces I can barely shape.
“I know,cara. I know.”
He settles fully onto the floor and draws me onto his lap, one arm firm around my back, the other cradling my head. He rocks me slightly, comforts me with the steady rise and fall of his breath.
I bury my face against his chest, the familiar scent of him—clean linen, faint soap, his distinct cologne, and him—cuts through the sterile hush of the house.
My tears soak into his shirt.
He lets me break.
Somewhere between breaths and cries, I realize that eventhough I’m annoyed with Nico and hurt by him, I reached out to him because in this moment—when the world is thinning, when someone I love is slipping away—he is who I need beside me.
