I brush my thumb over my mother’s neat handwriting. Since I was a kid, my mom loved hiding short notes for Vitto and me in our room and waiting for us to find them. It was never anything important, only a few words such as: “We’re having your favorite pizza for dinner” or “I heard you did well on your test. Nice work!” written on folded sheets. The notes were never signed but we always knew they were from Mamma. My father was never the openly touchy-feely kind, and his handwriting looked as if a crow dipped its leg in ink and wrote the thing.
A sad smile pulls at my lips. Mamma has always tried her best to compensate for my father’s lack of affection and to make me and Vitto feel loved. Knowing the truth about my marriage and keeping silent is killing her, but I made her promise that she
