And the whole family is under this roof.
All of them.
A house full of Contis is not quiet even when everyone tries to be. Doors open and close. Babies fuss. Women murmur. Men take calls behind half-shut doors. Footsteps pass my room at regular intervals, some cautious, some heavy enough to be deliberately announcing themselves. Some are the running steps of the young. Nobody is fully at rest. Nobody fully leaves.
They took turns coming in to see me.
Not formally.
No one said that was what they were doing.
But I'm not an idiot, and I know that's what it was.
Elena came most often, bringing food, checking water, checking the bandage with the authority of a woman who has decided medical training is less important than competence and stubbornness.
Teresa came with endless questions. Fever? Chills? Dizziness? Shortness of breath? Pain level? Lying?
She asks that last one every time and somehow makes it sound like a diagnostic category.
Even Vito came.
Once to stand at the foot of the bed and ask, “You alive?”
I said, “Apparently.”
He nodded, said, “Good,” and left.
The second time, he brought coffee.
That may have been Teresa’s influence.
Some of the visits brought tears, and some brought food. I preferred the food over the tears, but I could deal with both.
Everyone came.
Except Caterina.
That was expected.
It was also not.
She made her position clear yesterday morning. Twenty-four hours. Rest. Medication. Off duty. Bed.
She delivered the order, won the argument, and disappeared.
Efficient.
Cowardly, maybe.
No.
That’s unfair.
Caterina is not a coward. She is embarrassed. Angry at herself. Probably angry at me. Definitely determined to pretend nothing happened in the dark between the moment she walked into my room and the moment she walked out, as if the floor was burning under her feet.
Fine.
I let her.
