Chương 7
“And I heard you.”
He said nothing.
“I heard you every time you told her she looked like Elena.”
Alessandro’s face went pale.
Bianca looked at him through the mirror.
“I knew cutting it would upset her.”
Her next breath trembled.
“I didn’t know how much.”
Alessandro took one step into the room.
Bianca’s eyes dropped to the clippers.
“I did it anyway.”
Her mother began crying silently.
Vittorio looked away.
Alessandro stood just inside the doorway, every trace of argument gone from his face.
“What did you think would happen?”
Bianca stared at the ring in her hand.
“I thought she would cry.”
The answer was almost too quiet to hear.
“I thought you would finally be angry at me instead of pretending everything was fine.”
For a long moment, Alessandro could hear only the faint hum of the vanity lights.
Bianca kept staring at the ring pressed into her palm.
Her father shifted behind her, but this time he did not interrupt.
Alessandro looked at the clippers, then at the mirror, then at Bianca’s reflection.
“So you used her.”
Bianca flinched.
“I know.”
“No.”
His voice remained quiet.
“You used her to make me react.”
“I said I know.”
“You hurt a seven-year-old because you were angry at me.”
Her mouth tightened.
“Yes.”
Vittorio stepped forward.
“That’s enough.”
Bianca looked at him in the mirror.
“No, Dad.”
“He heard you.”
“He hasn’t.”
Alessandro’s eyes stayed on her.
Bianca turned in the chair and faced him directly.
“I was angry before this morning.”
“I gathered that.”
“No, you didn’t.”
“I knew something was wrong.”
“You knew I was unhappy.”
“Yes.”
“You didn’t know what I was angry about.”
He waited.
Bianca looked down at her dress.
The fitted white skirt had wrinkled slightly where she had been sitting, and she smoothed it without seeming to notice what she was doing.
“I was angry because I could feel you measuring me against Elena.”
Alessandro’s face changed.
“I never did that.”
“You didn’t have to say her name.”
“I did not compare you to my wife.”
“Your late wife.”
He stiffened.
Bianca caught the reaction.
“See?”
“That proves nothing.”
“It proves there are words I’m still not allowed to use.”
Her mother sat carefully on the edge of a small upholstered bench near the wall.
Vittorio folded his arms.
Alessandro stepped farther into the dressing room.
“You want to talk about Elena?”
“No.”
Bianca shook her head.
“That’s the problem.”
“Which is it?”
“I wanted to talk about what it was like living with her after she was gone.”
Alessandro stared at her.
Bianca’s voice softened.
“The photos were everywhere.”
“They’re family photographs.”
“I know.”
“Livia’s mother doesn’t disappear because you moved in.”
“I never asked for that.”
“You complained about them.”
“I asked if one could come down from the bedroom.”
Alessandro said nothing.
Bianca laughed softly.
“That one.”
He looked away.
“The wedding photo.”
“Yes.”
“You knew why I kept it there.”
“No.”
She leaned forward.
“I knew the explanation you gave me.”
“And what was wrong with it?”
“You said Livia liked seeing it.”
“She did.”
“Did you?”
He hesitated.
Bianca nodded.
“That was what I thought.”
Alessandro rubbed his thumb against the edge of his cuff.
His mother had given him the framed photograph after Elena died.
For two years, it had stood untouched on the dresser because moving it had felt more deliberate than leaving it alone.
When Bianca moved in, she had asked about it once.
He had answered too quickly.
Livia likes it there.
He could remember Bianca’s face now.
She had nodded and said fine.
He had treated the matter as resolved.
“I should have answered you better.”
Bianca closed her eyes.
“That doesn’t matter now.”
“No.”
“It mattered then.”
“Yes.”
Her hand tightened around the ring again.
“I kept waiting for you to say there was room for me without making me feel guilty for wanting any.”
Alessandro’s jaw worked.
“I proposed to you.”
“That was not the same thing.”
“I asked you to marry me.”
“And then spent a year acting like wanting changes in your house was disrespectful.”
“The house belonged to Livia too.”
“I know.”
“You changed her room without asking.”
“I replaced curtains.”
“They were her mother’s.”
“They were beige.”
“They mattered to her.”
Bianca stared at him.
“I did not know that.”
“She cried when she saw them.”
“And instead of telling me why, you put the old curtains back up while I was at work.”
“You knew she was upset.”
“I thought she was being difficult.”
“She was grieving.”
“And how was I supposed to know which object was grief and which object was just an object?”
The question stopped him.
Bianca’s voice lost some of its edge.
“Do you understand what that house was like for me?”
Alessandro said nothing.
“I touched a bowl and wondered if it was hers.”
“She didn’t care about bowls.”
“I know that now.”
“Then why are we talking about bowls?”
“Because I didn’t know then.”
She stood.
Her dress made a soft dragging sound against the floor.
“I didn’t know if the stupid blue mug mattered.”
“It didn’t.”
“I didn’t know if the chair mattered.”
“It did.”
“I didn’t know if the Christmas ornaments mattered.”
“Some did.”
“I didn’t know which songs in the car mattered.”
Alessandro looked at her.
Bianca laughed once, almost embarrassed by the sound.
“And every time I got something wrong, you looked at me like I had stepped on a grave.”
Her mother lowered her eyes.
Vittorio’s arms slowly uncrossed.
Alessandro took a breath.
“That still doesn’t explain what you did today.”
“No.”
Bianca nodded.
“It doesn’t.”
She crossed to the vanity and placed the ring on the marble.
Not beside the clippers this time.
A few inches away.
“I’m not asking you to forgive it.”
“Good.”
“I’m telling you why I was angry.”
“You could have been angry at me.”
“I was.”
May you like
“You could have yelled at me.”
“You shut down when people yell.”
