“Yes, your father and I both knew we were meant to be married. But our story was different.” I forced a thin smile. “You see, my parents died when I was only fifteen years old. They both got very sick with influenza. We called it the Asian flu at the time. It was sweeping fast across the US, and many people in our neighborhood fell ill. My parents died a week apart from each other.”

Frannie stared at me with wide eyes. Shock flickered across her face. “Mom, I didn’t know that. I knew your parents died, but I thought you were in your midtwenties and already married to Dad.”

I shook my head. “It was a terrible time. Of course, I had no other family to go to, and my next-door neighbor was kind enough to take me in. Mrs. Ferrari welcomed me into her home with open arms. I’d already become friends with her son, and when I turned eighteen years old, we began to officially date.”

“Daddy,” Frannie breathed. “I thought you were friends from school.”

“We were. I just never shared the details from before that. The rest is history. We got married, moved to Westchester when he opened up his housing business, and settled down.”

The words felt sticky on my tongue, but they were technically the truth. How could I explain to my daughter what it was like to feel trapped? To experience pressure from the woman who’d saved me to marry her son and give him babies? The ripping failure when I was only able to conceive Frannie, so I put my very heart and soul into raising her, making sure I was the perfect mother, only to fail again . . . and again.

The voice drifted to my ears, faint but clear. You never failed. Not me, or Frannie, or my mother. You were meant to be my wife, and I should have thanked you every day for agreeing. Instead, I took you for granted.

My thoughts felt like pure betrayal, especially when his words thundered so clearly in my head.

Our roles had always been clear. You took care of the business, and I took care of the household. I loved you too—don’t you ever doubt it.

But you never got to choose, did you?

“Nonni, are you okay?”

Allegra’s voice jerked me back from my imaginary conversation with my dead husband. “Of course. Goodness, let’s get going. We don’t have much time to explore,” I said, picking up my pace.

They allowed me to lead and asked no further questions. I was glad. There was too much rawness inside and I wanted to let it sit for a while.