I was standing, listening to her while rocking Angelo—I’d scooped him up and he was now falling asleep in my arms, against my sweatshirt that he’d soiled with tears and sweat and a silent spit-up, so maybe the fabric had bothered him. Gionata saw me attending to Angelo far too much, and he wouldn’t look at me. In the half-light, Daniela stood plump and chesty, in a gray wool dress; she’d put on weight but was still beautiful. She liked to have a water bottle with her to stay hydrated, and she went to the bathroom when the kids did, sometimes leaving the door cracked open so I’d hear her pee. She was telling me she couldn’t seem to get rid of her belly fat; the rest of her body hadn’t changed since giving birth: she’d always been beautiful, very curvy, a bit hidden with her retro fashion sense, swaddled in high-waisted skirts, dresses, peplum blouses. She’d rather ruin these clothes holding her children than tuck them away in her closet for some future use she didn’t really believe in after Gionata’s allergy and the curse—she’d never call it that in front of her in-laws—of having twin boys instead of the perfect little daughter she’d hoped to pair with her firstborn like it was a choice of interior design. She had red wavy hair that was dark and dull and reminded me of Eleonora when I first met her and her health wasn’t good. [I’ve only just realized there’s a triangle of red hair between Eleonora, my brother’s wife, and then our distant sister, whom I’ll get to soon.]

The living room–kitchen had three large glass doors, but there was little light coming in now, and Daniela was mixing flour in the dark, instructing Gionata, who obediently obeyed, anxious to keep this bubble of attention entirely on himself (the second twin was asleep at his grandparents’; my mother was watching him while she worked on a crossword). Being confined to home had put him behind: it was taking him a long time to learn how to talk, so even if he wanted to, he wasn’t capable of expressing himself verbally and could only interrupt us by whining.

“Since nobody cares if I spend all my fucking time with this little nightmare … sweetie pie…” (she stroked his head) “I thought: instead of going back to work—yeah, right—I’d do something I like. No way I’m looking for a job, I’ve got another idea to get back a little shred of my life…”

“What’s that?”

“I’m too embarrassed to say.”

The cookies were ready to bake and now the oven was preheating. Daniela licked dough off her fingers and gave just a little piece to her son, kissing him on the ringlets of hair glued to his forehead.

“Come on—fess up.”