Page 159 of Matteo

We’re sitting in the garden, Mama's favorite place—her garden.

She tends to it every day, and it shows. The small space behind her house in Soave is full of life with its climbing vines wrapping around the old stone walls, and a few stubborn roses still in bloom beneath them. Pots of herbs line the edges, their fresh grounding scent mixing with the damp earth.

A heater beside us keeps us warm in the October chill, while a large parasol overhead shields us from the lightly falling rain. The air is cool and fresh, typical for this time of year.

We sit opposite each other, cups of coffee growing cold.

“You should come to New York, Mama. You know you can travel the world. We can take you anywhere you want to go.”

“Yes,” she says softly. “Maybe I will come.”

“It's not even his money now. Rio, Enzo and I are doing well and contributing a lot towards the business.”

We never want her to feel like the old man has a hold over her. She's an independent woman, and she can look after herself. At least, that's what we let her believe. The “investments” we told her to make, have magically accrued vast amounts over the years. We've advised her well, but the three of us, Rio, Enzo and I, also top up her savings.

Because Mama deserves to not worry about money. She deserves to live a long, happy and healthy life.

We still remember how she fell apart, soon after she discovered that the man she loved already had another family. Had a wife. I'll never forget the weeks that followed. The endless crying.

At night, Rio, Enzo, and I would hear her grief through the walls.

We were just boys, powerless to stop it. So we made an unspoken promise instead.

Mama would never want for anything again.

And the old man would never get another chance to break her heart.

Tap, tap, tap. The sound of the rain gently falling on the umbrella is a rhythmic and soothing sound.

“Now,” she says, looking at me, “are you going to tell me anything about Elizabeth?”

I jolt inwardly at the sound of her name. Not physically, nothing that Mama would notice, but hearing her name out loud sends reverberations inside me. She's been in my thoughts the entire time I've been here, the entire time since I left her. Thoughts I've tried to suppress and failed.

My hand grips the table, like I need something to steady myself with. I'm not ready to talk about her to Mama just yet.

“She's someone from work, Mama. There's not much to tell.”

My mother gives me that look; the one she used to when she knew we were holding something back. And when I remain silent, she states, “You don’t want to talk about her.”

I look away, because this woman knows me too well. I can feel her watching me expectantly and waiting.

So I turn back to her, because I've been turning this question over in my head ever since I left the wedding reception.

“How did you feel when you discovered that he cheated on you? When you realized that he wasn’t who he said he was?”

Her expression changes, and though it softens, I catch a glimpse of old pain still there. I hate making her relive it that time all over again.

“Sorry, Mama, but I have to know.”

“It broke my heart,” she says quietly. “He broke my heart, because never in a million years did I think he had eyes for anyone else. I was so sure that he was the one. And he was so good with you all. He loved you all so much.” She pauses, glancing down at her hands. “I don’t know if you remember, Matteo. You were all so young.”

“I do remember, Mama.”

“But when he did that to me, to all of you,” she continues, “I realized that he was a man who could not be trusted.”

Could not be trusted. I feel a knot in my throat.

Trust is such a precious trait.