“She is very pretty,” he says.
“I know. But she’s also smart. And she works too hard. And she forgets to eat when she’s busy. And sometimes she cries in the barn when she thinks I’m asleep.”
His jaw tightens.
I don’t think he likes that.
Good.
Neither do I.
“So,” I say, lifting my chin, “are you gonna be her husband or not?”
For a long moment, he doesn’t say anything.
Then he reaches out and gently straightens the corner of the paper clipped to my board.
“I think,” he says carefully, “that your mother should be the one to decide who becomes her husband.”
I sigh.
Grown-ups always make things harder than they need to be.
“I know that,” I say. “But she gets distracted.”
“Does she?”
“Yes. She has animals and bills and Raynaud’s syndrome. So sometimes I have to help her so she doesn’t get too sick.”
“That’s very thoughtful of you.”
“I’m a very thoughtful lady.”
“I can see that.”
I narrow my eyes. “You didn’t answer my question.”
“No,piccola,” he says. “I did not.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t make promises I’m not certain I can keep.”
I think about that.
Mama says promises matter. She says they shouldn’t be thrown around like free candy at parades.
“Okay,” I say finally. “That’s a good answer.”
“I’m glad you approve.”
“I didn’t say I approve. I said it was good.”
“Important difference.”
“Yes.”
He stands, and for a second, I think the conversation is over.
