“Well, I don’t plan on cooking for Dante. I think I will be able to leave soon. Besides, he has you,” I say to her with a small smile, hating the words as they drip from my mouth. But I need to be realistic and pause her thoughts of this being more than it is. Otherwise, I’ll get carried away along with her.

“Leave? Why do you leave?” she asks with a wave of her hands, stopping what she is doing. Looking right at me, confused, her eyes quiz me as a frown mars her face.

“Ahh… uhm… because this is not my home?” I offer to her with a slight shrug, not wanting to upset her. But my answer catches me off guard because it dawns on me then that I don’t have a home and have no idea where to go after I leave here.

“Dante has never had a woman here. But you are here, and in his room!” She smiles and shakes her head. “No, Bella, no, you not leave.” Her eyes glisten with happiness, and I give her a soft smile in return, not knowing what to say.

“What about Leo’s mother?” I ask tentatively, and I still as Maria looks at me sharply. There are no photos of her, no momentos around the house, nothing in Leo’s bedroom. It’s like she never existed.

“She is not a nice woman, Bella, not a good mother. Dante hasn’t let a woman in this house since his ex-wife left. You are the first. But let’s not talk about her. Come, we must make tiramisu. Dante loves tiramisu!” She changes to topic so fluidly, there is no more room for questions before we start with the final cooking lesson of the day.

Moving around the kitchen with her, I can’t help thinking Dante was referring to his ex-wife as being the liar, and that she’s the whole reason he hates liars in his life. My stomach feels like I have swallowed lead, the fear of him uncovering my secret now beginning to crawl up my spine, knowing that I should probably tell him, yet knowing I really don’t want things to change. As the days have passed, I have wanted to share that part of myself with him because he doesn’t feel like a stranger anymore. Even if whatever we are feels like more in my imagination. But I can’t get myself to do it. I hate the thought of him pitying me. I want him to treat me like a woman, see me as a woman, not an invalid.