Page 149 of This Life of Mine

After admitting our ages, the conversation flowed effortlessly into a trip down memory lane. We laughed about growing up during the rise of iPods and LimeWire, and reminisced about fashion trends we’d once thought were the height of style—low-rise jeans, Ugg boots, and all the questionable choices that came with them.

“Tell me something else about you,” Lina says then. “Anything. I’d like to get to know you better.”

I don’t deflect. I don’t joke.

“Tell me more about your childhood,” she adds gently. “What your mother was like.”

I consider her for a moment, then nod. I take a seat across from her with my plate.

“My childhood,” I begin, searching for the right words, “started out… magical.”

She stills, listening intently.

“My mother was a bright light,” I continue. “Always smiling. Always gentle. She was happy, as if joy was her default setting.”A slight grin appears on my face. “She was a homemaker most of her life. Loved to cook. Loved to bake. The kitchen was her domain.”

Lina smiles softly at that.

“She came to Queens as a little girl with her parents,” I go on. “Only child. Very sheltered.” My jaw tightens slightly. “She met my father at church when she was twenty. She was still living at home, unmarried.”

I draw in a breath.

“My father…made an offer to her parents. Money. Security. A way out.” I glance at Lina. “My mother didn’t care about the money. She cared about him.”

There’s a pause before I add, “Her father wasn’t a good man.”

Lina’s expression shifts—gentle, not prying.

“He tried to cross lines a father never should with a daughter,” I say carefully. “She fought him off every time. So she wanted out. Desperately.”

I push my eggs around my plate, memory tightening in my chest.

“My father bought her a house. Three bedrooms. Two baths. Right there in Queens.” I smirk at the memory.

“She knew what the arrangement was. That he wouldn’t always be there. That he had a life elsewhere.”

Lina’s eyes never leave my face.

“She accepted being the other woman,” I say. “Because it meant safety. Freedom. A life away from her father.” I pause. “But it wasn’t cold or transactional. They loved each other. Deeply.”

I swallow.

“When I was little, I didn’t know any of that. I only thought my dad worked in Italy. That he came home when he could.” I let out a quiet breath. “I adored him. Worshipped him, really.”

“When did you realize?” Lina asks.

“When I was twelve,” I answer. “Old enough to understand what wasn’t being said. Old enough to see the gaps.”

My eyes find hers.

“But when I was a kid? Those years were good. Full of warmth. My mother made sure of that.”

The kitchen is quiet for a moment.

Lina reaches out, covering my hand with hers. Not pity or sympathy. Just presence.

“Thank you for telling me,” she says.

I nod once, more affected than I expected.