I force a smile, trying to smooth away the ache in my ribs. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to sneak up on you. You just looked... happy.”
Rosa blinks, surprised, then her face softens into a warm smile, the corners of her eyes wrinkling. “Cooking makes me happy.” There’s something so simple and genuine in the way she says it. That throws me a little off balance.
I glance toward the stovetop, needing something, anything, to redirect the tug in my chest. “So what’s on the menu?”
“Do you like Italian?”
I huff out a laugh, grateful for the shift. “Does a right angle equal ninety degrees?”
Rosa chuckles. “I’ll take that as a yes.”
I lean against the counter as she rattles off the menu: spaghetti bolognese, freshly baked garlic bread, tiramisu cooling in the fridge.I should be wary of her. She betrayed me once. She’s loyal to Cyan.Somewhere along the way, I stopped pretending to tolerate her company and started looking forward to our nightly dinners. I tell myself it’s just because she’s the only person I really talk to these days, but that’s not the truth. I respect her.Despite everything, she remains loyal to her family. That loyalty may have worked against me once, but I understand it more than I want to admit.
“Thanks for keeping your word and checking on my gran,” I say, swallowing past the lump forming in my throat. “I know you didn’t have to.”
Rosa brushes the gratitude away with a flick of her wrist. “This family takes care of its own.”
I stiffen; she means me, and I don’t know what to do with that. “I appreciate it, Rosa,” I manage. “It means a lot to me knowing she isn’t alone. You’re a very loyal, caring person. Your boys are lucky to have you.” She waves a dismissive hand, but something unguarded flickers in her eyes before she tucks it away. “To show how grateful I am,” I add, forcing a smile, “let me help you?”
Rosa raises an eyebrow. “Only if you really want to.”
“I do. I love to cook.” Before she can protest, I slip away to change. When I return, Rosa hands me tasks of salad prep, shaping bread loaves, while she tends to the sauce.
We fall into a peaceful rhythm, the kitchen fills with the steady chop of vegetables, the quiet simmer of tomatoes, the soft clink of metal against cast iron. It’s harmonious in a way my life hasn’t been in years. Familiar, even.
“Aria, taste.” Rosa nudges a wooden spoon toward me.
I take a bit into my mouth. The flavor blooms across my tongue: rich tomatoes slow cooked to sweetness, deep umami from the meat, garlic, and oregano whispering through caramelized onions, and that faint tang of Parmesan settling warm and soft on my palate. My eyes close. “Divine,” I breathe. The word leaves me like a prayer. “How did a Filipina woman learn to cook Italian food so well? It’s as good as my Nonna’s.”
The warmth on Rosa’s face dims. Her stirring slows something shifts. It’s subtle but unmistakable. “My first husband was Italian,” she says finally. “He ensured his mother taught me.” Her tone is off, far from the Rosa I’ve come to know this past week. Rosa turns back to the stove, stirring absently, her gaze drifting somewhere far beyond the kitchen.
I set aside the dough, step closer. “I’m sorry; I didn’t mean to bring up bad memories.”
She shakes her head. “No, no... It’s not that.” Rosa exhales, then glances at me with a small, wistful smile. “I was just thinking about my late husband, Calum. Johnny’s father. Cyan’s uncle. The funny thing is, I wouldn’t have met the love of my life if I hadn’t first met Roberto.” I hesitate. I’ve read about Calum MacBrady’s death. He died in the same way as Chester, in a violent, bloody drive-by, I wonder if that is the ending men in Cyan’s world seem destined for. But the way Rosa speaks his name… with such reverence.
“I’m sorry for your loss, Rosa.”
Her eyes glisten, but she gives me a tender smile. “Thank you, Aria. There isn’t a day that goes by that I don’t miss them.”
Oh, to love like that. To be loved like that.I saw it once, with my parents. I’ve always wanted the same.
I return to shaping the dough, but my curiosity nags. I want to know more. “Rosa... how did you and Calum meet?”
She sets the wooden spoon aside, resting it carefully against the pot. For a moment, she just watches me, weighing whether to let me in, whether I deserve this piece of her. Rosa turns her back to me. She puts the spice bottles back into the drawer one by one, with the small, steady motions. I think she won’t answer, then I hear her voice. “You see, Aria, life has a way of choosing paths for us, often when we least expect it.” Rosa lets out a heavy sigh. “My first husband, Roberto, used to beat me.”
Her confession makes my head snap away from the dough and straight to her. “One night, he beat me so badly he thought I would die. That bastard dumped my body in a dumpster in an alley, right next to Calum’s barbershop.”
I see the slight tremble of her lips, but she doesn’t falter. “Calum found me and rescued me from death’s door.”
She closes the drawer, and a heavy silence settles between us. When she speaks again, her voice is barely a whisper. “My sweet baby girl didn’t survive.” My heart cracks open. Rosa knows the worst pain a mother can have. Losing a child. A shaky breath escapes her. “I was eight months pregnant when he tried to…when he did that to me. To us.” The kitchen fades away. The simmering pot, the warm air, the smell of yeast—all gone. There is only Rosa. Her hand trembles as she touches the jagged mark along her cheek. The scar wasn’t just carved into her skin, but into her very soul. Every time she looks at her reflection, she faces her loss. I don’t realize I’m holding my breath until I force myself to speak.
“Rosa…don’t” My voice fractures. “I–I’m…”
She shakes her head. “I don’t tell you this for pity, Aria.” Her fierce gaze hooks mine; steady, she is a survivor. “I tell you because life can be cruel. But sometimes…sometimes it leads you exactly where you’re meant to be.”
Without thinking, I reach out. My fingers curl around her wrist. “Stop, Rosa. You don’t have to tell me anymore; this is painful, I can see that.”
“No, I want to tell you, Aria. I see the way you look at me. At this life.” Rosa’s eyes shine with knowing. “You’re wondering why a woman like me. Someone who loves cooking and visiting an old woman in a dementia home chose this life.”
