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I do not seeeither Caterina or Luna until breakfast the next day.
Breakfast, of course, is more than just that. It is a large affair, that I insist will be held in the formal dining area. With a full breakfast spread, courtesy of Francesca.
Like a goddamn family.
Caterina and my truce feels shaky, but stands still. It kills me that I have to sit across the table from my child and not claim her as my own. It kills me that I have to earn my place as her father.
It kills me even more that I’m playing along with this.
I’m the first in the dining room. I sit, and wait.
The minutes tick by.
Francesca brings out a glass of cold water. No ice, of course. I’m not so American that I have to have ice in every single one of my beverages.
But I do insist on the water being cold, at least.
A drop beads on the outside of my fine Venetian glass, and I watch it slip downwards as the water slowly becomes room temperature.
Where the hell are they?
Just when I’m about to get up to find my errant wife and child, Caterina’s voice echoes in the hallway.
“I don’t know if they’ll have French toast, baby. But maybe we can tell Nonna Francesca that’s your favorite breakfast, and she can make it for you for a special treat.”
I snort. I will make a note to tell Francesca, and Luna can have French toast every day for breakfast if she wishes.
Whatever that is.
They appear in the dining room. Luna breaks into a big smile. “Mr. Mommy’s friend!” she says with a wave. “Are you here for breakfast too?”
I nod. “I am.”
“What’s your favorite?” she chirps as she climbs up to a chair at my right hand side.
The fact that she has come so close to me without anyone forcing her to do so makes my heart do something that feels uncomfortable.
“I prefer French toast,” I say with a completely straight face.
I have never eaten French toast in my life. As far as I know, the French eat toast the same as anyone else in the world. I think that she’s referring to bread that’s been soaked in milk and eggs, which I have always called pan dulcis. It is often madefor children, or for babies who are just learning how to stomach food.
However, I haven’t a single memory of eating something of that nature. I probably have. Most of my childhood is a blur to me, and it’s highly likely that someone made it for me at some point in time.
I just haven’t been a child for so long. Even when I was a child, I was not a child.
I feel a small amount of guilt at lying to the child’s guileless face.
However, the glow that illuminate’s Luna’s face is worth the small white lie.
“I love French toast!” she shrieks, the emphasis onloveso high-pitched that it could shatter glass. She squirms in her chair, standing on it to look at me. Her small hands rest on my shoulder as she leans in. “Do you eat a lot of syrup on it?”
“Luna. Your butt goes in a chair. Feet go on the floor,” Caterina chides.
Dutifully, Luna follows her mother’s instructions. “Sorry Mommy. Can I have French toast now?”
“We will see what Francesca makes,” Caterina says firmly.
Luna’s lower lip juts out, trembling slightly. “But…”
