They insisted on coming.
They said it would only be for one night—to help with the transition, to “make Giulia’s recovery easier.” As if I were an obstacle. As if their presence alone could cure anything.
The house felt smaller with them in it. Mrs. Marta was already in the kitchen before I had even finished taking off my shoes, opening cabinets as if she were rummaging through old secrets.
“Where are the dish towels? These ones are stained.”
Isabella, who was slicing carrots into perfect little rounds, answered calmly.
“The clean ones are in the bottom drawer. Those are the ones we use to dry our hands.”
“Oh.” Marta picked one up with two fingers, as if she were retrieving a shirt from the floor of a teenager’s bedroom. “Elena had linen towels. White ones. Hand-embroidered.”
I didn
