“She is my wife!” José yelled. Menotti flinched.

“I have heard the stories. I know what she is. She is married to another man.”

“No, she is not. That man is dead. He died nearly ten years ago!”

Teresita leaned into my arm. I put a hand on her leg as she began to tremble.

“Oh, that is very convenient. I am sure she told you that story once she saw you. The girls always chased you. I only hoped you would not find one so devious.”

Teresita took the liberty of covering her ears and looking up at me.

“She is my wife and the mother of my children! You will show her respect!” Both Menotti and Teresita jumped.

“And I am your mother! Where is my respect?”

I now knew where my husband got his stubborn head from. I handed Ricciotti to Menotti and slipped into the hallway. They both turned to me, red-faced, the same vein on the side of their heads popping up. “José, she is right. This is her house. While we stay here we will be in our separate rooms.”

“Well, at least the woman has some respect. I guess they are not all savages in the Americas.” Mamma Garibaldi stomped away from us.

I grabbed José by the wrist before he went into the parlor. “Promise me that if we are to live in Nizza for an extended time, we will have a house of our own. I will appease your mother, but this cannot be forever.”

He kissed my forehead. “Sì, tesoro mio.”

Mamma Garibaldi showed no interest in discussing the current issues of the day as we sat down to dinner. She sulked at the head of the table, a figure dressed all in black, ignoring our conversation. Silverware clinked against the china as we ate in silence. Before we had even finished with the food, she popped up and cleared the plates from the table. Menotti’s fork was halfway to his mouth when she whisked away his plate. He tried to protest but she ignored him. As the sun began to set, Mamma Garibaldi announced that she was going to bed, leaving us in the parlor in peace.

The furniture in the parlor was nicer than anything we’d ever had in any of our homes. Three delicate vases adorned the coffee table, while a porcelain statue of a maiden desperately clutching her hat against a bitter unseen wind sat on the table next to us. My stomach clenched at the danger these most likely priceless treasures were in with my children in the home.

Menotti curled up in a chair with his latest read, Eighteenth-Century Battles of Europe. He gripped the book with both hands, his face completely covered, the binding crinkling with every page that he turned. José sat on the floor with Teresita and played with dolls while I rested on the couch, slowly swaying from side to side with Ricciotti.

Teresita fell onto her father’s lap. “I hu’gry.”