Without another word, I led the way up to my bedroom, where Salvatore helped me pack up the things I wanted to keep, mostly books and old diaries I’d hidden. My bed stood where it had always been, just beneath one of the two windows. My father used to ask me how I could sleep there in the summer months—didn’t the light wake me up too early?—but I loved it. I looked out onto the backyard, where he’d put up a second swing like the one in the front yard.

I sat down while Salvatore taped up the last box. It was when I picked up the pillow that I found it. A letter addressed to me, the envelope sealed, the handwriting familiar.

My father’s.

I picked it up and stared at it. My father’s suicide note had been brief. He’d said he was sorry. He’d said he’d failed everyone he loved.

I ran the pad of my finger over the blue ink before sliding my finger beneath the flap and tearing it. The sound stood out, almost as if it blocked out every other sound, every other person or thing. My heart pounded, and my hand trembled as I pulled out the folded sheet of paper.

Dear, dear Lucia,

I know this comes too little too late, and you won’t ever know how sorry I am for the part I forced you to play in this terrible war. I want to say I had no choice. I want to blame anyone else. And for a time, I did. But that wasn’t real.

One thing I’ve learned these last five years is to take responsibility for my actions, for their consequences. For your consequence. And this one, this final one, is the one I cannot reconcile. The single thing that has broken me.

I am so very sorry, Lucia. I am so ashamed of myself. I am a weak man, and I’ve burdened you with a weight too heavy. I can’t live with this anymore. I will fail you again by being absent when the bastard comes to claim you. But you see, I cannot live with this for another moment longer. I cannot live, knowing they destroyed both of my daughters.

I hope you will forgive me. I do love you more than anything in this world.

Papa

A hand on my shoulder startled me, and I glanced up.

“You okay?”

It was Salvatore. I quickly crumpled the letter and threw it into the trash can, then wiped my face with the backs of my hands.

“I want to go.” I said, looking around for something, what I had no idea. “I need… I can’t.”

“Shh.”

He wrapped an arm around me and, without another word, pulled me into his chest and held me there, one hand rubbing my back, the other holding tight.

“Shh,” he said again.