His father turned his back to rifle through his toolbox. The rigid set of his shoulders told Darius he was not ready to concede defeat.
“Isn’t that why you changed our last name?” Darius pressed. “To make us sound more Canadian? To avoid the persecution you experienced when you first came to this country?”
He whirled around, dark eyes blazing. “You throw my actions back in my face? Is this how a son respects his father?”
Darius closed his eyes, counted to ten, and opened them. “That’s not why I brought it up. I only want to remind you of the hardships you faced—we faced.” He softened his voice. “I know you want a better life for Sofia.”
Papá tossed the rag down, not meeting Darius’s gaze.
Darius let out a breath. “What about a compromise? Once she’s old enough to understand when to use Greek and when not to, you can teach her our customs. Until then, I’m asking you to respect my wishes.”
Several seconds passed in silence. At last his father nodded. “Tell your mother I will be working late.” He stuck his head under the hood and started to tighten the oil cap.
Regret settled like a stone in Darius’s gut as he left. He didn’t want to hurt his father, but if it meant protecting Sofia, he had no choice.
Twenty minutes later, Darius walked into his parents’ house. Mamá and Sofia would be happy he was home early tonight. They could eat dinner together and maybe go for a walk afterward.
In the kitchen, he found his mother at the stove, stirring a steaming pot.
He bent to kiss her cheek, then opened the icebox to grab a bottle of milk. Whistling, he took a glass from the cupboard and filled it up.
“How was your day?” he asked before he gulped down half the glass in one long swallow.
“Fine. Sofia helped me with the laundry. Wore herself out, poor thing. She’s having a nap.”
“Wow. She must have worked hard.” He laughed. His four-year-old had long outgrown her afternoon nap and usually protested loudly if one was suggested.
Mamá put a lid on the pot, then turned around, wiping her hands on her striped apron. Hurt shone in her eyes. “She told me today that she wants a new mother.”
His heart pinched. “Oh, Mamá. She didn’t mean anything by that. She adores spending time with you.”
“Yes, but I’m still her yiayiá, not her mother.” She pulled out a chair and sank down onto it. “Perhaps it’s time, Darius. Time to find a good Greek girl and start over. Make a new home for Sofia with brothers and sisters.”
Darius wiped the milk from his upper lip, his gut clenching. “I don’t want a Greek wife, Mamá.” After losing Selene at the hand of lawless thugs, he’d vowed never to experience that type of pain again and to shield his daughter from the hatred that had killed her mother. He rose and placed his glass in the enamel sink. Perhaps the time had come to tell his family about Meredith. He leaned a hip against the counter and crossed his arms. “I need to tell you something, Mamá. I’ve been seeing someone for a while now. She comes from a good family here in Toronto.”
His mother’s eyes narrowed. “Is she Greek?”
Darius held back an exasperated groan. “No, she’s Canadian, of British descent, I believe. Her name is Meredith Cheeseman.”
“Cheeseman?” Mamá snorted. “Does her family make cheese?”
Despite his frustration, Darius chuckled. “They don’t make cheese. Her father is a business associate of mine.”
Mamá shook her head. With a great sigh, she heaved herself up from the chair. “Cheeseman. What kind of name is that?” She muttered something in Greek and resumed her position at the stove.
Darius pushed away from the counter, reining in the urge to defend himself. His mother just needed time to become accustomed to the idea. Best to leave her be for the moment. He trudged up the narrow staircase to Sofia’s room and peeked inside. She lay curled on her bed, the princess book tucked under one arm.
Darius walked over and quietly pulled the quilt up to her chin. “One day you’ll have a new mother, Mouse. One who will love you as much as I do. I promise.”
The door slammed shut behind her. Olivia absorbed the vibration that shuddered through the air before setting off down the sidewalk. Another job interview, another rejection. The meetings always started off well, but as soon as Olivia tried to fabricate an explanation about where she’d been for the past year and a half, the interviewers picked up on her evasiveness and promptly showed her the door.
She’d been living with Ruth for two weeks now, and with each day that passed, her hope of obtaining a job dimmed. It looked like she would have to swallow her pride and ask for Ruth’s help. With the woman’s many connections in the city, surely she could find someone willing to hire her. At this point, any type of work would do, no matter how menial.
Olivia attempted to shake off her gloomy mood. The next stop of the day—a visit with her friends at the reformatory—would require putting on a brave front. As much as it might pain her to do so, Joannie and Mabel deserved a visitor filled with hope, not one who looked like she was facing the gallows.
With renewed determination, Olivia continued down King Street. The fact that her interview had been mere blocks from the reformatory had spurred her to keep her promise to visit the friends she’d left behind. In particular, Olivia worried about Joannie, who had always looked so frail, despite her pregnancy. Her due date had passed, so it was entirely possible that she’d had her baby by now.
At the corner of King Street and Jefferson Avenue, Olivia’s feet slowed to a stop. A bus whizzed
