At seven years old Menotti clung to José, choosing to be his shadow in all things, admiring his father as if he were a god. If his father was at the helm, Menotti would be there as well. If José was trying to calculate our navigation, Menotti was by his side trying to learn how to operate the delicate instruments. I saw him only in the evenings, yawning deeply as he collapsed into bed.

When I could spare a moment, my thoughts drifted to Luisa and her family. Our last visit together had been one filled with false bravery. While Anzani was going to be joining José on the campaign, Luisa and her children were going to her family’s home in Spain. We had sat in her parlor, letting the children play for the last time.

“I have not seen my brother in five years.” She watched them, avoiding eye contact with me. “It will be good for the boys to be around their cousins.”

“I wish you could come with us to Italy.”

“I was only a child when my family sought the safety of Spain. The Austrians made sure we didn’t have a home in Italy to go back to.” Luisa sighed. “I have been gone from Italy for so long that Spain feels more like home.” She looked at me for the first time, tears swimming in her eyes. “I want to be with my husband, but we agreed it would be best for me to go to my family while he fights. Anyway, Tomaso has started his apprenticeship with my brother.”

We grabbed each other’s hands, the unsaid words floating in the air between us. Anzani’s illness, the children, the very real possibility that we would never see each other again. “I’ll write. I’ll tell you everything and then when we are settled, you’ll come and stay with us,” I told her.

“Yes. I’d like that,” she said.

* * *

March 1848

When we finally approached the port in Genoa, the children and I climbed above deck and made our way to the bow of the ship dressed in matching red shirts. Our anticipation grew, the children bounced in place, their little fingers gripping the railing. I clasped Ricciotti tighter as my heart fluttered. The question that had been plaguing me rose up like bile in my throat: Will I be accepted?

The docks of Genoa appeared on the horizon. A great throng of people crowded the harbor and they were yelling.

“Viva Garibaldi! Viva Garibaldi!” Their chants drifted out over the ocean.

“Mamãe!” Menotti exclaimed. “They’re calling our name!”

“They are, aren’t they?” I said in equal amazement. Menotti turned his attention back to the docks with their crowds of people.

When we disembarked the ship, Menotti pulled me to the left. Teresita grasped my skirt and pulled to my right, rambling about something unintelligible. José stood to the side playing the politician; shaking hands, kissing children, making everyone love him. Old women shoved bread and flowers at me. All of those people surrounding me, clamoring for our attention. I turned my head for a moment to look at my husband, and then my children were gone.