For a moment, I wondered if I should say no. Children love their parents no matter what. Thinking of my own absent father, I knew that as well as any. I could, in fact, tell her the same thing other adopted children heard: that while they had one parent by birth, they had another by love. That her father was her father no matter what. I could allow her to have a relationship with him even when I could not and allow her to negotiate it on her own terms as she got older.
But I was done lying. She deserved the truth, and the truth was that Calvin had never loved her or shown any interest whatsoever in being her father. The sooner she stopped clinging to that as a possibility, the better. For her own safety, if nothing else.
“No, darling. He is not.”
Olivia was quiet for a bit more, the only evidence of her internal strife being the way she continued to wring the tack cloth beyond an inch of its life.
“Good,” she said finally, then looked up with an expression more tired than any ten-year-old girl ought to be.
“Good?” I repeated.
“Yes. He doesn’t act like a father. He’s never given me hugs or said he loved me or done anything with me at all. Not like my friends’ fathers do when they get them from school sometimes. Or your friends. Like Mr. Sterling, remember?”
Ah. So that weekend in Boston had made quite the impression on her. My heart warmed at the clear memory of one afternoon when Skylar, Jane, and I had entered the house to find Matthew and Brandon, Skylar’s husband, asleep on a sofa, each with a small girl curled up on their chests—Brandon nestled with his daughter, Jenny. And Matthew’s arm wrapped securely around Olivia.
“Yes,” I agreed softly. “I do remember.”
“And, Mama…you were scared of him. Weren’t you? I saw you. That one time.”
I almost told her everything right then. It would have been so easy to make the man she had grown up with into a villain for her as well as me. And maybe one day I would divulge everything that had gone on in our lives. But for now, this one trauma seemed enough.
“It doesn’t matter now,” I said. “But yes, I was sometimes. And that’s why I’m doing everything I can to keep him out of our lives. I’m so sorry I lied to you, my love. I should never have done it. But from now on, it’s you and me in this world. And I promise, I’ll never keep secrets from you again.”
She quieted once more, digesting each word like a separate bite. But she didn’t wring the tack cloth quite so tightly.
When she spoken again, it wasn’t with the questions I expected. She didn’t wonder where we would live or what would happen to Calvin or any of those basic questions I would have expected.
Instead, she asked, “Do you have pictures of the farm? And of Lucrezia and…Rose…Rosi…”
“Rosina?” I completed for her as surprised relief flooded through me. “Yes, I do.”
I gave her my phone, and she didn’t ask me anything more, just wandered outside to a bench near the paddocks. And there she sat, looking at all the pictures Giuseppe’s daughters had sent over the past few months after I had helped them pay their farm’s taxes, and then with some help from Eric, invested a bit in the replanting of olive trees. Olivia kept looking at one in particular—the two older girls in front of a row of saplings. Their arms were draped over each other’s shoulders, and they were toppling over, open-mouthed and bent forward mid-laugh. Their joy sprang off the screen, and Olivia whispered their names to herself again and again. Sometime later, I heard “my sisters” float on the wind out to sea, like she was sending a message to them herself.
“It went as well as it could have,” I said after describing the basic events. “It was never going to be easy, breaking my own daughter’s heart.”
The table was silent as I finished the story. Jane sighed and looked at Eric, who was tight-lipped, brow furrowed. They all cared about Olivia, and I was glad for it. But it would be a long time before my sweet girl learned to trust me or anyone else again. I was under no illusions otherwise.
This time, Matthew didn’t hold back. He reached into my lap and took my hand purposefully, daring me to pull away. I did not. And when Jane and Eric changed the subject to something more neutral, I let him keep it there until we were finished eating and both of us stood to clear the dishes.
“Walk me out?” he asked after we had finished, and Jane and Eric were making their excuses to go upstairs for a “nap.” In her defense, Jane did look particularly tired.
I followed Matthew out to the street, but when he leaned in for a kiss, I stepped back as I caught a ruffle in the curtains by the door.
“I adore Jane,” I said, nodding at the house. “But remember, she’s not particularly discreet.”
Matthew snorted as he looked back at the window himself. “That she is not. Somehow Jane missed the stage of life where everyone else got a filter.” He sighed heavily and rubbed a rough hand over his face. “I hate this.”
“I know,” I said, dying to reach out and brush a stray lock of hair from his forehead. “But we have to wait.”
“Sure, duchess. We have to wait.” He exhaled heavily. “I’ll call you when I’m home, all right? I love you.”
Before I could answer, he turned in the direction of the subway, where a train would whisk him downtown to work, and then on home to Brooklyn in the wee hours of the morning. But suddenly, he turned back.
“I don’t want to wait with everyone,” he said suddenly.
I frowned. “Matthew, I thought we talked about this.”
“We
