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I turned to face her fully, the corners of my lips tugging into a faint smile as I reached for the chopped tomatoes and basil leaves, ready to assemble the bruschetta.
"We will find a way," I assured her, my voice steady. "I promise you, Griselda, I won’t let anything harm you or our child."
After drizzling a generous amount of olive oil over the toasted bread and layering it with the vibrant mix of tomatoes and basil, I finished preparing the bruschetta and served it between Griselda and me. The fragrant aroma wafted through the air, momentarily diverting our attention from the weight of our conversation.
As we savored the flavors, I couldn't shake off the growing curiosity about her family's history.
In between bites, I gently broached the subject of her mother, asking if she had made any decisions about when to see her. Griselda's lips curved into a slight smile, but I could detect a hint of the troubles that had been clouding her thoughts.
"It's like we're stuck in this loop of never-ending problems," she sighed, her voice tinged with a mix of weariness and determination. She continued after a pause, her voice laced with gratitude.
"Thank you, I appreciate it, Emilio. It means a lot." She paused again, her fingers tracing the rim of her plate thoughtfully. "I'm not sure when I'll be ready to see her." She confessed.
As we continued to enjoy the meal, I felt compelled to bring up the topic of her father.
"I still haven't been able to find much about your dad," I admitted, a trace of frustration seeping into my voice. "Even Lucas would have dug something up by now. It's like he's a ghost."
Her gaze remained fixed on her plate, lost in the depths of her memories.
"My mother rarely spoke about him, and I never had the chance to know him," she revealed softly, her voice carrying the weight of a past left unexplored.
I took a bite of the bruschetta, the crisp texture of the bread complementing the burst of flavors.
"Do you ever wish to get to know him?" I asked, my curiosity mingling with a desire to understand her perspective. "If you had the opportunity to meet him, would you be open to work at building a relationship with him?"
She paused, delicately setting down her fork before responding.
"No, I don't think so." She continued, giving a poignant explanation, "regardless of his reasons, I can't think of any justification for leaving us, for leaving my mother to shoulder all the responsibility on her own for all those years."
I nodded in silent acknowledgment, the weight of her pain palpable in the shared silence.
"Have you ever thought about meeting him, though?" I inquired gently, hoping to unravel the complexities of her feelings.
She met my gaze, her eyes reflecting a depth of emotion that words couldn't fully capture.
"No, I don’t want to meet him," she replied firmly. "I just want to uncover the truths that have been hidden from me and if finding him leads to that, then so be it; but meeting him face-to-face, inviting him into my life, is not part of the plan."
"But what if he wants to come back into your life, into your mom's life?" I probed further, careful not to impose but genuinely seeking to understand her stance.
"I wouldn’t agree," she stated firmly, her voice unwavering. "His absence has left a void that can't simply be erased. I can't just let him waltz back into our lives as if nothing happened."
Thinking of another angle, my curiosity tugged at me, compelling me to ask the next question.
"What if your mom is ready to accept him back?" Thinking of the tangled emotions that must have haunted her mother all these years.
Griselda chewed thoughtfully; her brow furrowed in contemplation.
"I can't speak for my mom or dictate her choices," she began, her words measured. "But I can't see why she would want to let him back into her life. He chose to walk away, to leave us to fend for ourselves. I don't see how she could forgive that."
I continued eating quietly, my mind lingering on Griselda's dad and the mysteries surrounding him. Our lives always seemed tangled in some drama. On top of my challenges within the mafia, now I had to figure out who her dad was.
Then Griselda spoke up, firm in her decision.
"I've made up my mind," she declared. "I'm going to see my mom tomorrow."
Her sudden determination caught me off guard, but I could see she was resolute.
"I'll drop you off," I offered, wanting to make sure she felt supported.
