I thought she was probably just exhausted, but no one discussed this, including her, just like no one discussed my mother’s exhaustion when she was her daughter-in-law’s age; Daniela didn’t blame my family for this, though, not like she did with her parents, who had their life in Latina, were involved in the church or in academia, I forget which, and didn’t concern themselves too much with their daughter, meaning, they thought she was difficult. Let the reader decide.

She felt my company was essential. I was the only “adult person” she spoke to—she hadn’t had a night out in two years—first, it was Gionata’s fevers, then raising the twins while Luca followed the regional governor around to every evening event. I asked her if she spent hours and hours watching TV dramas; she told me that I had no idea how hard it was for her to concentrate: “I’ve forgotten how to follow a plot.”

She sat down to mix up a batch of butter-free cookie dough for Gionata, whom she’d hoisted onto the chair beside her, so he could help; Daniela, Angelo in her lap, kissing the top of his sweaty head, didn’t want to stop talking with me, but after a short while without us paying attention to him, Gionata started to whine. Daniela tossed some English in when she didn’t want him to understand: “I never get to finish a conversation. I only get to talk with children. So boring.”

“You or them?”

She sighed: “Both. But I meant them. See! You think I’m boring, don’t you?”

“Come on! Not at all.”

“My problem is, this seems fine for everybody else. Like my punishment is that I can’t have a life. Plus, of course, my parents aren’t around, which is both a blessing and a curse, and if they were around, I’d be even more of a doormat.”