I want to ask her how this happened, how long she's known about it, and why she didn't reach out to me sooner. But at the same time, I'm so afraid of her answer that I can't bring myself to ask. More importantly, I suddenly realize what kind of help they want to ask me for.
They want me to return and help save the family legacy.
Their home.
Our home.
Accompanied by Alessia's soft sobs and Camilla's silent tears, I reach for the grappa, empty the glass in one gulp, and immediately refill it.
Fuck.
Abruptly, Alessia turns around, her curls swaying backward. "Father wants to speak to you." Her sober tone is unlike my little sister, whose voice usually carries a melodious lilt. "He's waiting in the library."
I clench my fingernails into my palms. "Fine," I say, though it's anything but fine.
No one responds, and I’m left speechless as well. Almost robotically, I rise to make my way there.
Suddenly, someone grabs my arm. "Wait."
I whirl around and meet Alessia's red-rimmed eyes.
I know that they see me as their rock in troubled waters. And that's what I want to be for them.
But right now, I truly can't handle any more bad news.
"Let's talk about it later," I say quickly, eager to get away.
Away from their tears, the sight of which brings me to my knees.
With my hands buried deep in the pockets of my jeans, I trudge along the beaten path to the back entrance of the main house. I avoid looking up, not wanting to see the venerable building or how it has changed in the almost four years of my absence. With my head down, I open the heavy wooden door with its intricately carved ornaments and step into the dimness of the hallway. Damp, cool air greets me. Only a few more steps along the uneven stone floor separate me from the library. There, I will come face-to-face with my father after all this time to explain to him why it is impossible for me to carry on his work.
My future lies on the highest cliffs in Europe. In the place that used to be my home, everything feels constricting.
I would perish if I were to stay here, where the same curtains still billow in the gentle breeze from the drafty windows. Just this hallway alone constricts my chest. For in my mind's eye, I see myself as a little boy, walking down the corridor with nothing but swimming trunks on my body and the taste of sugary grapes on my tongue. Laughing loudly because I could easily escape from my three sisters during our game of tag. Everything was good here for so long. But that time is irreversibly over. I don't belong here. From the ruins of the past, I have painstakingly built a new life. A life that I love.
In the meantime, I have arrived at the library. The dark door with its metal fittings is only slightly ajar, but no sound can be heard from inside the room. The only thing that reaches my ears is the rushing of my own blood.
This is ridiculous. There's nothing to fear, so I pull myself together and step in confidently. The wooden floor creaks under my feet, and the air is so stale as if no one has ventilated this room for years. I even imagine still catching a whiff of the pungent smell of medical soap that hung in the air during my last stay in this room. My gaze sweeps over the floor-to-ceiling shelves covered in a thick layer of dust. None of the two thousand books seem to have been moved in years.
The room seems dead.
Just like my father, whom I now discover in an antique brown leather chair. He sits there motionless, staring out through the dirty window. His slippers, made of thin fabric, are frayed at the edges, and his jogging pants and faded shirt hang on him like on a coat hanger. His hands tremble in his lap. His fingernails are long, and his skin appears scaly and pallid.
My God, what has happened to him?
"Hello, Father," I say as I step closer to him.
He doesn't look up at me and doesn't utter a word. It's as if he doesn't even realize I'm here. But I'm acutely aware of his presence. I see every detail—the deeply furrowed forehead, the hair that is much too sparse for his nearly fifty-five years, the sunken cheeks, the grayish complexion. I don't understand. When I left Tuscany four years ago, he was stable. He had forgotten how to laugh joyfully and feel genuine happiness, but his muscles were strong, and behind his troubled expression was that iron will. Even though I couldn't see him, I felt he was there.
I was sure that everything would turn out fine. But the way he huddles on the armchair today, staring into the void behind me, speaks a clear language.
Father is not sick in the way I thought earlier. I turn around but don't see any medications or medical devices in this room. I don't even spot one of those health drinks. His body is healthy. But his soul is suffering, and there is only one possible explanation. The death of my mother has taken more than just the love of his life from him.
Gazing out the window over the gently sloping hills of Collina da Sogno, I clear my throat with effort.
"You wanted to talk to me?" I ask because I hesitate to inquire about his well-being. Not even a blind person could miss the aura of decline surrounding my father.
His armchair creaks softly, immediately capturing my attention. He nods sluggishly. "Thank you for coming," he murmurs wearily.
