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I still couldn’t believe that Dad was dead and we’d buried him this morning. Now people had gathered in our home to eat and drink and gossip. It was horrible, and I wished I could disappear.
A couple came my way, and I couldn’t get away before they cornered me.
“Hello, my dear, we’re so sorry that your dad’s gone to heaven.”
The words themselves might have been okay, but the woman spoke to me as if I were three. Another thing I detested. Some people thought I was mentally handicapped because I couldn’t walk. “I doubt Made Men go to heaven,” I said defiantly but instantly felt guilty. I hoped Dad had found a place in heaven, or at the very least his peace. But these people made me so angry.
Danilo appeared by my side and touched my shoulder. At once, the couple talked to him and ignored me, and I was glad for that.
When they finally disappeared, Danilo met my gaze. “Are you okay?”
“No,” I whispered.
Danilo nodded. “Stay strong. In a few hours, they will be gone, then it’s only us.”
“If your stupid ex-fiancé could see you now… Maybe we should send him a photo.”
My heart clenched, remembering the soul-crushing scene of his father coming to our house to cancel the engagement andhow it had made me feel. How small and worthless. It had taken months to move on but not because of my ex-fiancé—losing him hadn’t hurt. He had been a stranger after all. That day, I felt like I’d lost any chance at a happy future.
Eventually, I found a routine in my home that made me forget about the restrictions I often encountered outside or at other people’s houses. Whenever my family was invited to a dinner, Mom fretted over accessibility weeks before the actual event. Of course, she’d never inquire with the hosts if I could access everything. She didn’t want to bring attention to my disability as if someone could actually miss it. Sometimes I wondered if she was embarrassed of me. I didn’t dare ask, and she never said it outright. I wished she would treat my disability and my wheelchair with more casualness. If she showed others that it wasn’t inconvenient or even embarrassing, perhaps people would treat me normally. Mom’s inability to stand up for me made me equally angry and sad.
If Giorgia hadn’t taken matters into her own hands, the hotel where her brother’s wedding took place wouldn’t even be aware of my disability.
I knew it was hard for Mom. Our society made it hard for her. It was a world ruled by old-fashioned, powerful men. Men who valued three things in women: beauty, child-bearing qualities, and innocence. In their eyes, I couldn’t fulfill the first condition. I liked my face and body. Both were pleasing to look at but not flawless in how they were defined in our mafia world.
The moment I entered the wedding location that day, I was reminded of our world’s bias.
It was strange how an accident, how me being in a wheelchair, changed the way people perceived me, even people who’d met me before.
Suddenly, most gazes passed me by as if looking at me directly made them uncomfortable. And those who still daredto look at me always averted their eyes with an air of embarrassment and almost guilt as soon as I made eye contact, as if I’d caught them doing something indecent. As if they felt guilty for being able to walk when I couldn’t. It made me resent our world and wonder if I could ever really belong in it.
That they were looking wasn’t indecent, but I could imagine that their thoughts made them feel guilty and unable to return my gaze.
I wasn’t stupid, and despite what some people might think, I wasn’t deaf either. I heard them whisper loudly about what a shame it was that a beautiful girl like me was in a wheelchair. They made it sound as if my being in a wheelchair stole my beauty from me. Even at fourteen years old, the enormity of their judgment already hit me hard.
In a world where women were solely judged by their beauty and their child-bearing qualities, I was regarded as less.
Less beautiful than a girl who could walk freely on her own legs. Less in so many more ways I didn’t want to waste a moment thinking about.
Most days, I managed not to think about the many hurdles I’d have to face in our world. But on days like today, it was hard.
Over time, I’d forced myself to readjust my hopes and expectations. Would I ever walk freely again? No. Would I marry? Probably not. Today, as I watched the married couple do their first dance, sorrow and wistfulness hit me full force, and I allowed myself to feel both for the duration of the dance.
I had erased hopes of my own wedding from my mind as much as it was possible.
The moment the dance floor opened for everyone, Giorgia was ushered toward her brother to dance with him. I watched her with a small smile, fighting the desire to move toward the dance floor and dance. Giorgia and I had full-fledged dance-offs at home, but I had never danced in my wheelchair in public.
“Would you prefer to leave?” Danilo murmured.
I quickly shook my head because I wanted to be part of our world. I wouldn’t hide.
Giorgia met my gaze across the room and motioned for me to come her way.
My eyes widened. By now, the music had switched to fast pop songs. When I didn’t follow her invitation, she hurried toward me with a grin and held out her hand. “Let’s dance.”
I let her pull me along toward a corner of the dance floor, then she released me and began to jump and twirl to the music. I could see people watch her with raised eyebrows over her display of careless joy. Giorgia was curvy, too curvy by our beauty standards, but it didn’t stop her from enjoying herself. Emboldened by her confidence, I moved my wheelchair to the music until everyone else faded into the background.
I’d carve out my own bubble of happiness.