She freezes with a slice of bacon clamped midway between the pan and the paper towel-lined plate.

“Of course you weren’t.” She lays down the slice and takes another.

“You should have told me.”

“Why? So you could decide what was best?” She speeds up the transfer. “You were always of your own mind. Always about yourself. Have you thought for a minute that the entire episode might have been painful for everyone involved?”

“Especially Mom.”

“She made her choices.” She lays down the last of the bacon and drops the tongs in the sink. “Can we just celebrate without fighting? How about you make some toast for your brother’s sandwich?”

Celebrate.

That’s what this will be. A joyful time, when a man and a woman are united as one. As I get the bread, I see the scars on my fingers. When widows and widowers are remarried, the cuts are sliced into the exact same place, resplitting old wounds that lost their complement to make a new match.

“You don’t even trust Sergio.” I press the lever on the toaster, staring at the white lines that will always fit Dario’s. “You think of him as an outsider.”

“This is what your father wanted,” Grandma says sternly. “I’m allowed to be happy for that.” She clears her throat and changes her tune. “Denise is bringing her wedding dress. She thinks it’ll fit. Too bad you won’t have the garter your mother made for you. That man took care of that, I guess.”

“I guess he did.”

I wish I had the garter. I can’t remember what happened to it, with the little cherries and a message I was supposed to take into my marriage.

YOU BELONG

We pack up Massimo’s lunch, and Grandma hands me the bag.

“You can bring this with you to Precious Blood.” She smiles and squeezes my arm. “You’re going to be set free today.”

Her version of freedom will never be mine.

Massimo’s not in his office. He’s in the Dome. Clutching the bag, I decide to personally bring him his lunch to find out what he’s doing there.

The Dome is an echo chamber. Every footstep reports back. I walk in from one of the eight entrances in my plum dress and open black coat, paper bag clutched in both hands. Massimo is in the center with Father Martino and Uncle Caesar—the witness—surrounding a little round table made of marble. The pews are empty.

“Here she is,” Uncle Caesar says, holding out a meaty hand. After kissing both of my cheeks, he notes the color of my dress. “Purple, eh?”

The annulment papers are on the table.