“Love my son?” she says under her breath, more to herself than to me. Her voice is barely above a whisper, and her eyes are fixed on the roses. “Every day he looks more like him. Acts like him. Moves like him. The same eyes. The same—” She breaks off, pressing a gloved hand to the back of her mouth as though she’s going to be sick.
“It’s not his fault that he looks like Mr. Montoni,” I say fiercely. “He can’t help that. Cristiano is nothing like his father. He’s kind and gentle and he would never hurt anyone. He’s the best person I know.”
Mrs. Montoni flinches like I’ve struck her.
“You don’t know him,” she whispers. “You don’t see what I see.”
“I see him perfectly.” I’m shaking now, anger and desperation tangled together in my chest. “I see a boy who works so hard for approval that never comes. Who gets beaten for just trying to be himself. He has no one who tells him he’s worth anything. You’re his mother. You’re supposed to love him!”
She’s crying now. Actually crying. Tears streaming down her cheeks, her whole body trembling. The secateurs fall from her fingers into the grass.
All the anger drains out of me at the sight of her tears. “Mrs. Montoni?”
Her body bows forward as she sobs.
Horror washes over me. What have I done? I’ve accused her of not loving her son when she’s clearly terrified and broken and barely holding herself together.
“I’m sorry,” I stammer, backing away. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to—I shouldn’t have—”
“Please go.” Her voice is shattered. “Please. Just go.”
I turn and run.
Through the garden, past the hedges, around the side of the house. My heart is pounding and I can’t breathe. I replay the look on her face when she started to cry.
I did that. What if she tells Mr. Montoni? What if she tells him the housekeeper’s daughter cornered her in the garden and made accusations about Cristiano and yelled at her until she cried?
He’ll be furious. He’ll blame Cristiano, and he’ll hurt him even more.
I find a quiet corner behind the gardener’s shed and sink down against the wall, pressing my hands to my face. I was trying to help. I was trying to make things better for Cristiano. Instead, I’ve made everything worse.
You don’t know him. You don’t see what I see.
Mrs. Montoni’s words echo in my head, and I push them away angrily. She’s wrong. She doesn’t know Cristiano like I do. She doesn’t see the boy who puts his head in my lap and trembles when I stroke his hair. The boy who kissed me like I was precious. The boy who begged me to stay.
He’snothinglike his father.
I stay behind the shed until my breathing slows and my throat stops burning. Then I get up, brush off my clothes, and walk back to the house on unsteady legs.
I don’t go looking for Cristiano. I don’t know what I’d say if I found him.
That night, I lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, trying to figure out what to do. I could tell him what happened. Warn him that his mother might say something to his father. But then he’d know I went to her. He’d know I tried to interfere in something that wasn’t mine to fix. Would he be grateful? Or angry?
I could stay away from him and prove to Mr. Montoni that I’m not worth punishing Cristiano over, but the thought of not seeing him makes my chest ache. After yesterday, how am I supposed to just stay away?
I could talk to Mom. Tell her what happened.
But she’d be furious and scared, and she’d probably march me straight to Mrs. Montoni to apologize, which would only make everything worse because what if I make her cry again?
I roll into a ball and hold myself tight.
I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what’s right anymore. I’ve made a terrible mess of everything, and I don’t know how to fix it.
Somewhere in this house, Cristiano is sleeping. Or maybe he’s lying awake like me. He has bruises on his face, a mother who’s afraid of him, and a father who hates him. It’s just notfair.
How can I abandon him when I’m the only person he has?
But how can I be his friend when being close to him only makes his life harder?
