Liliana shakes her head, her face already drawn, eyes wide in her beautiful face.
She speaks. “He was my son, Giovanni’s younger brother. He was mute and deaf, just like you. He took his life at sixteen.” The words choke the air, and I feel Liliana’s stare like a weight, but I don't look at her.
Mother continues. “He had quiet eyes, but he was always watching. Dio, he was gentle. He loved the garden. He's the reason we employed staff who understand sign language.” Her face fractures, her smile bittersweet. “I believe he was too fragile for the world he was born into. He was bullied,” she says, hervoice a broken whisper. “Mocked for what made him different. Until one day, he decided he couldn’t bear it anymore.”
“That’s enough,” I say sharply, banging my fist on the table. “Enough, mother. Alessio is not a story to be passed across the table.”
Mother's gaze holds mine. “I know you blame yourself for what happened. You always have. But how could you have known? You need to forgive yourself, figlio mio.”
I can’t sit through this. I can't let her keep looking at me like that, like she sees the boy I used to be and the man I’ve become all at once. I push up from the table, muttering something about needing air—though it’s not air I need, it's silence—and I walk, fast, until I reach the study.
The walls close around me like old arms. My fists are tight, my jaw tighter, my chest hollowed out in places I forgot existed. I reach for the bottle of Vecchio Amaro I keep for whenever I need to think strategically. But tonight, I want it for something else. The past has risen without mercy, and I need it to dull the ache in me.
I pour the Amaro into a glass and watch the dark liquid settle. It smells sharp, like regret made drinkable. I down a mouthful and let it burn. The familiar taste settles in my stomach like a dead weight.
Then the door opens behind me with a soft creak. I don't have to turn to know it's Liliana. Her scent precedes her.
She doesn’t knock, doesn’t pause. She just walks in like this room has always belonged to her too, and maybe it does. She doesn’t sign either. Not questions. Not sympathies. She crosses the room slowly, her footsteps soundless.
Then, she sits beside me, close enough that I feel her warmth before I even look at her. She just sits there, not moving, like that’s enough.
And somehow, it is.
I want to reach for her, to bury my hands in her hair. I want to pull her into me, feel something real. I want her to take this ache I can’t name, the grief that’s burrowed into my bones. But I don’t move. I stare straight ahead and drink.
And then, she does something totally unexpected. She moves without warning.
I turn in time to see her lean in slowly before her arms rise to slide around me. It floors me, and I freeze for half a second, not because I don’t want it, but because I need it more than I realized
Her hold is quiet, not desperate, not forced. Just real. I don’t resist. My body gives in like it’s been waiting. I lean in without thought, burying myself in the curve of her shoulder.
Her scent rises around me, lavender and something uniquely her. I breathe her in deep, holding on like my sanity depends on it. And perhaps it does.
Her fingers press lightly against my back. She doesn’t cling, but I cling to the moment, never wanting it to end. I close my eyes and let myself feel what I’ve been trying to outrun since my mother opened her mouth. I breathe without pain.
All my life, I’ve lived without needing the comfort of others. I’ve survived without arms to fall into, without hands reaching for mine.
But suddenly, with her, I want softness. I want her quiet, her warmth, the steady presence of her beside me. I want her to hold the parts of me no one else has seen. I want to bury myself in her silence and let it muffle the ache. I want her to comfort me… and I don’t know how to ask.
When she pulls away, it’s not abrupt, but it still leaves a chill in her absence. I open my eyes. She’s watching me, her gaze steady on my face. There’s no pity in her expression, only presence. And something deeper I can’t name.
Her hands rise between us. I’m sorry.
The words are gentle in her fingers. I nod once, brushing my hand softly over her hair, needing the contact. I leave my hand to linger in her hair. She leans into the touch, just slightly.
Then I see her gaze fall to my mouth. Her breath catches. Her expression shifts. And then she stands, too quickly, like she’s afraid of what might happen if she doesn’t.
I watch her turn and walk to the door like she’s leaving something behind. At the door, she stops.
Her back remains to me for a moment. Her shoulders are stiff, then she turns slowly, hesitating before signing. Her hands move slowly, her fingers trembling. Did you marry me because of what happened to your brother?
The question lands like a deep cut. Her hands form it carefully, like she’s afraid they might cut. And they do. Because I understand what she’s asking. I understand what she’s afraid of. And she is afraid. I can see it. And still, she asks.
Yes, I saw her that first day, and something inside me cracked open. Yes, I felt a need to protect her, and it was fierce and immediate, because I had failed once before. Because the world had been cruel to my brother, and I hadn’t stopped it. And because when I saw her, I saw someone too much like him—silent, unheard, already bruised by a world that didn’t know what to do with someone like her.
But that’s not why I married her.
I rise, and cross the room, each step deliberate. She watches me come, but doesn’t step back.
