1980s

𝒯he divorce was awful. For countless nights you had to endure his shouting, his demands, and his senseless justifications. Sometimes he'd storm out, slamming the door so hard the baby would start crying, and you'd spend nights sleeping little or not at all.

But you finally made it. You kept your son Milo, that precious boy who had been your rock since he was born four years ago. Now, you were free.

No one controlled you, no one watched over you or laid a hand on you. It was just you and little Milo.

You were able to see your family again. You traveled to Sicily in the summer and stayed in the lovely villa where your parents lived.

In the afternoons, you watched Milo running around: picking fresh lemons with his grandmother, running through the laundry hanging in the yard, and playing hide-and-seek with the family's old dog, a Segugio Italiano.

Your father was a very wealthy man, a renowned lawyer. Emanuele was one of his apprentices, the youngest member of his law firm.

— “Madonna santa…” — he exclaimed when he first saw you, taking clothes off the line while he was sitting on the porch overlooking the patio, a cup of coffee in his hand and a cigar at his side.

Your father was inside, making more coffee.

Then, a stronger breeze swept through, and one of your son’s shirts slipped from your grasp and flew toward him, landing a few steps from his feet.

Emanuele got up without a second thought and picked up the shirt from the ground, brushing off any trace of dust as he approached you, who had one hand occupied holding a wicker basket.

Up close, you were even more beautiful. He loved the round shape of your eyes and those long eyelashes, your smile, and how lovely your hair looked when the wind stirred it.

— “Here you go.” — he said, handing you the shirt and noticing how small it was. — “It’s a little small for you, bella, don’t you think?” — he asked jokingly, since he didn’t know that children lived in Don Eduardo’s house.

— “It’s my son’s.” — you replied, laughing, carefully taking the shirt to put it in the basket.

Emanuele raised his eyebrows.

— “Your son? I had no idea Eduardo had grandchildren.” — He put his hands in his pockets. — “How old is he?”

Any other man would have turned away upon hearing that, but not Emanuele. That’s not what a real men do.