Slick marble under my shoes.
Someone speaking too quickly.
A housekeeper crying in the corridor.
Matteo and Tomasso not home, thank God. Thank God for that, at least. They were seventeen, too young and too old all at once, and I remember thinking, absurdly, that Anna would be furious if there was blood on the rug.
That was one of my first thoughts.
Not prayer.
Not hope.
Not even denial.
Anna will be furious about the rug.
Then I saw her.
And there was no room left in me for anything.
“Papà.”
This time, it is Matteo.
I look up.
Both my sons are watching me.
Not with suspicion. Not with pity.
With something worse.
Understanding.
Matteo’s face is pale under the warm light. Tomasso’s jaw is tight, his eyes too bright.
Matteo speaks first.
“What happened was not your fault.”
For a moment, I cannot answer.
It is not that I do not understand the words.
It is that they do not belong at this table.
They do not belong in his mouth.
We have spent ten years not saying them, and now my son offers them to me across dinner like he has been carrying them for too long.
My throat tightens.
“You do not know what you are talking about.”
“Yes,” Tomasso says. “We do.”
My gaze moves to him.
