I run toward her, but Fabrizia clutches my wrist. “Don’t ruin your dress.”

I pull up short and stand there waving at Zia Teresa like a moron. She seems smaller than usual and kind of withdrawn. Only her brown eyes are the same, bright as a sparrow’s. She looks me up and down with the same assessing look she used to give me before school. “You’re magnifica, bella, but what is…?”

She gestures at my breasts.

I raise a hand to my barely covered chest. “It wasn’t my idea, Zia! Mr. Parker chose the dress.”

“He could have chosen a little more of it.”

I grin even though my heart is tearing open. I want to hug her so badly, it hurts. By the time I was nine, I was already taller than Zia and I started picking her up and crushing her to my chest. She pretends to find it annoying, but I know she loves it. If it wasn’t for this stupid wedding dress, I could do it again.

“I can’t believe you came to see me!” I say.

“Of course, I came. Nothing could keep me away.” Zia looks at Fabrizia and I wonder if she’s about to criticize her for showing off my cleavage, but their eyes meet in some mutual understanding.

“I’ll give you a moment,” Fabrizia says and walks back to everyone else.

Zia takes my hand. “I can’t stay long. If your stepmother knew I was here…”

“I know.”

She turns her head and coughs. A long, wet cough I could recognize in my sleep. “Zia, please quit smoking.”

“Bah, what’s the point?” She looks around then stands on tiptoe and kisses my cheek. “You look beautiful.”

I try to smile but my face won’t move. “I wish you could come to the wedding.”

“What do we say about wishes?”

“They’re for fools.”

“That’s right.” Zia pushes her tiny shoulders back. “Stand tall.”

I lift my spine, imitating her.

“Better. Now smile.”

I try again but it makes the corners of my eyes sting. Zia Teresa has the heart of a soldier and today, of all days, I don’t want to disappoint her, but the thought of what will happen once I’m Mr. Parker’s wife is terrifying. “Zia—”

Her hand tightens on mine. “This is not the place.”

“I know, I just wish I could make brodo with you.”

Zia stares at me and to my horror, her brown eyes gloss over.

Zia Teresa hates weakness. She finds art pretentious, music sentimental and she scoffs at romantic comedies. We’ve spent thousands of hours together and I’ve never seen her cry. “Zia…”

She raises her fingertips, squashing the tears away. “Tell me the recipe for brodo.”

“But—”

“The recipe, bella. Now.”

I swallow. “Boil three osso bucco and two chicken breasts in salt water. Skim the fat and add garlic, onion, celery, carrot, potatoes and Roma tomatoes. Simmer for an hour then strain the broth and serve it with pastina. When everyone is done with pasta, you serve the meat.”