Page 165 of The Ache That Stayed

The question landed clean. I crouched slightly, pulling her closer, my hand settling at the back of her head.

“She’ll be home soon.”

Not a lie but not entirely the truth either. Something in between. She accepted it the way children do—without suspicion, without doubt. Then she smiled, tugging Romano’s hand from my shirt.

“Nonna is waiting for you in the study.”

I found her exactly where I expected. Seated with a calm composure in the study. Waiting.

I didn’t speak when I entered. Just crossed the room and sank into the chair opposite her, dragging a hand over my face before leaning back, closing my eyes for a brief second.

“Così grave?” she asked.

(That bad?)

I didn’t answer. She didn’t repeat the question. Instead, she studied me. Properly.

“You haven’t slept,” she said after a moment. “And you haven’t shaved. When was the last time you ate something that wasn’t poured into a glass?”

I let out a tired breath, edged with equal parts irritation and exhaustion.

“I didn’t come here to be examined.”

“No,” she said calmly. “You came here because you’re already past that.”

Yet, she reached for the decanter, poured, and handed me a glass. I took it and finished it in one swallow. The burn didn’t touch what sat underneath.

“What happened?” she asked.

This time, I answered. Not everything. But enough.

Enough for her to understand. Enough for me to hear it out loud.

When I finished, the silence didn’t rush in to fill the space. It settled slowly, like it had been waiting.

“I should have killed him the day he came back,” I said finally, pushing to my feet. Movement felt necessary.

“I had every reason to. Every right.”

She didn’t interrupt.

“I trusted him,” I continued, pacing once across the room, my hand dragging through my hair. “He knew exactly what he was doing.”

She said nothing, refusing to either agree or deny it. Her silence irritated me more than any answer could have. I hurled the empty glass towards the fireplace. Shattering it with a deafening sound sharp, violent—gone as quickly as it came.

“I should have ended it,” I said in a rough voice. “All of it.”

A beat passed.

“Then why didn’t you?”

She asked calmly in a way that only a mother would. The question cut right through me, stripped of any warmth or comfort. I stilled. Because I’d known the answer the moment I stepped back.

“I wouldn’t survive it,” I said, with a low breath.

The truth sat undeniably heavy between us. She watched me for a long moment. Then, quietly—

“So it isn’t about him.”