Page 4

And after a while, people begin to leave.
They murmur their condolences to Papa, and to us too, before they all leave the site.
Soon, it’s only us left behind.
Me, Dario, and Papa.
Slowly, Papa stands up, his movements stiff and jerky. His eyes are bloodshot and hollow, and his face is pale. As Papa walks over towards us both, his steps become heavy and uneven.
And when he reaches us, he kneels down onto the ground again, pulling us both into his arms.
“I love you.” Papa says, his voice rough and low. “I will always love you. I will always protect you.” Dario begins sobbing softly, his body shaking against mine, and Papa’s. “You are my heart, both of you, and I will give you both the best life from now on. I swear it.”
His arms are strong around us.
I don’t say anything to Papa—I can’t say anything to him—so I just cling onto Mr. Buttons with my face pressed into Papa’s dirty shirt. Even Dario doesn’t speak, he only holds onto me and Papa tightly.
Everything is quiet now.
All I can think of is Mama.
I think of her smiles, and how pretty she looked when she laughed. I think of the way she would tuck me in bed at night, and kiss my forehead, telling me how much she loved me.
And then I think about what I overheard Papa saying to Dario one day, and why it always made me think that I would be safe forever.
Women and children are to be unharmed.
It rings loudly in my head as I squeeze my eyes shut, feeling Papa’s shirt becoming wet with all my tears now.
Who would be so cruel?
Who would break the rules?
My heart aches.
Why would they ever hurt my Mama?
I sob louder with those questions in mind, barely able to open my eyes now that I’m safe in Papa’s arms.
Although it’s been weeks since we buried Mama, our house feels just as heavy as the day we left for the funeral.
Papa’s footsteps thunder down the hall, loud and sharp, almost shaking the walls. He’s been like this every single day, stomping through our house as he yells at people on the phone,his voice deep and booming. I don’t really understand the words he says—sometimes they are Italian, and other times they are English—but I do understand that talking to others only makes him angrier.
Pressing my back against my bedroom door, I clutch Mr. Buttons tight to my chest.
His fur still smells like Mama.
I asked her to spray my teddy with her favourite perfume, and she did, so I like having him close to me.
I still haven’t let anybody wash him.
Downstairs, I hear a crash—maybe a glass or a plate being thrown to the floor.
And when I hear Papa’s angry voice, I wince.
Dario talks to Papa, his voice calm, but firm.
Ever since we returned from the funeral, Dario is the one who tries to calm Papa down, but it never works. For the last couple of days, it seems like Dario’s voice only makes things worse for Papa.