But of course, it is more than the smell. It is the deeply ingrained order, the clearly defined rules. The familiar rise and fall of the kyrie, the round and regular textures of Latin words brushing against her skin, the ritual of kneeling, the rhythmic flicker of small candles at the altar, the whisper of incense. It is the ability, for an hour each week, to trust that someone else is in control.

Antonia settles onto her knees. She crosses herself and her future seems to hover in the rafters of the church. Hi, Papa, she prays. I miss you.

Here, missing is a clear thing. She misses the light in their home, the shuffling of her parents’ feet as they danced together in the living room. She misses looking up and always finding Carlo looking down, the open window of love in his face, the certainty of that. Her papa’s hand on her back as she floats toward sleep.

And it is here that Antonia has been steadily realizing she wants something different from what she has been offered. That she does not want to end up like her mamma: with nothing but a husband who is no longer there and a child she no longer parents to her name. It is here, in the pauses between breaths, in the raising of her head and opening of her eyes after praying, that Antonia realizes she wants a life of her own design. One where papas do not disappear for no reason and life is not governed by so many immutable, unwritten rules you might be suffocated where you sleep.

—

Later that night at dinner, Antonia chews slowly, hardly tasting her food. The cacophony of Sunday surrounds her, but Antonia retreats into her chair, making herself as inconspicuous as possible. So, school tomorrow? Sofia’s papa asks her, but since it is not a real question Antonia gets away with saying, yes, and moving her attention back to her plate. Besides the library, where Antonia spends every moment she can, school has been disappointing. Antonia is anonymous, sure. She sees fewer kids from their old school than she would expect. No one has whispered about her father or glanced judgmentally at her mother; no one knows about them. She and Sofia have no classes together, and this has never happened before. Without Sofia, Antonia has been disappointed to discover she is timid, and small, and easily brushed past in the hallway. Just like Mamma, she says to herself, disgust like a scrap of food inhaled, stuck below her throat. She lost her husband, Antonia says to herself, which is what everyone says about Lina when they are trying to engender sympathy or reason away the parts of her that no longer seem to fit into the rest of the world.

—