Ginevra
“Mom, can I talk to you for a minute?” I stand next to my mom shyly, waiting for her to turn to me.
“Of course, my dear.”
My mother is about to arrange a bunch of delivered, freshly cut flowers into crystal vases while maids carry them into the assigned rooms as soon as she finishes a composition. She doesn’t look at me and I play with my fingers nervously before I clear my throat.
“I don’t think that the liaison with Tommaso is going to work out, mom.”
She halts for a moment but resumes her work nonchalantly. I guess that is the maximum I could get, even with such a statement.
My relationship with my mother has always been a bit rocky. While my father was more the spoiling type of person, my mother thought to have to countervail it with a strong hand. If I wanted to talk abo
