Since I’d stopped working, I spent one afternoon a week helping my sister-in-law, Daniela, on her nanny’s day off. And over the weeks, I saw my features emerge on Angelo’s face: he sometimes felt like my son, with his big dark eyes, squashed nose, and the lovely hollow between his mouth and nostrils; the little hair he had was dark, sleek, and combed down—he looked like a mini fashion model; his forehead was twisted into three worry wrinkles; his skin was pink, with a few little red allergy bumps. The way he most resembled me and his father was that he had his grandfather’s same dignified sadness: lips pressed together, the downward slant to the eyes, the tension in the curved brow ridge, balancing some overwhelming, internal weight.

His twin brother, Giuseppe, resembled Daniela, so when we were together, the five of us—me, her, the three boys—we looked like the typical bourgeois family, with one son entirely his father, me, and the other two entirely their mother.

One cave-in after another, Angelo’s knees grew tired, and I sat him down on the table, legs dangling; worn out, he studied me with approval; then a look came into his eyes, some sad memory that made him withdraw into himself: he tilted his head and gazed off with a desolate expression, his chin beaded with sweat; he smiled, showing his gums, like his grandfather; a ghost gave him some bad news that pressed the corners of his mouth down so far I felt pervaded by pain; we looked intently at each other, and he grew calm; he reached out to pull my beard and his round eyes were soothing.

He received more bad news from deep inside: I figured he was about to vomit on me, so I grabbed him and leaned him to one side and watched the vomit spurt out of his mouth, onto the floor.

He was inconsolable, his screams carrying to his mother, who eventually strolled in, holding Gionata, her oldest boy, by the hand. Gionata, face perfectly round, with his long curls and my mother’s beautiful cheekbones, was emitting falsetto screams, trying to compete with his little brother. His screaming was stylized, though he wanted to believe it was real, which made the sound even more annoying. But after spending this Christmas together, Gionata and I had developed a bond: I sometimes almost teared up showing Barbara his photos; when he grew sleepy, he’d call my name.