82

LORENA

“Okay, which book?” I asked my son, my throat slightly strained from emotions. The truth was I wanted a real family.

A husband that loved me, children running around our home, grandparents that cherished them. I wanted it all, though I was more likely to get to the moon than get any of it.

“Fiaba,” he demanded. Fairy tale.

“Well, buddy. Alessandro can read you a fiaba. I’ll read you Green Eggs and Ham.”

I handed Alessandro one of the fairy tales in Italian. “You first.”

He started reading without objections, but something in his eyes unsettled me. The burning in his gaze, the intensity. It made my insides melt, made my body react, and it was infuriating.

He read in his deep voice, Italian words rolling off his tongue effortlessly. There was something so damn gut-wrenching in this moment.