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“Dear God,” falls out of my mouth, and it doesn’t sound like a prayer. The guests around the table look at me. “I mean, wow. What a story.”

“It is,” Claudia agrees. “Mauro had a guardian angel from the moment he was born.”

“Excuse me.” I stand, but not upright and not well. The chair scrapes the slate floor, making the sound of a rusty knife on stone.

Claudia offers directions to the powder room. Once inside the house, I run inside the bathroom, close the door behind me, and lock it. I search through the cabinet for a paper bag. I find a small one filled with cotton balls under the sink. I dump the cotton balls onto the counter. I breathe into the bag, in and out, in and out, until my heart rate steadies. I put the cotton balls back into the bag and place them under the sink. I wash my face and hands. When I open the door, Angelo is waiting for me.

“What happened?”

I throw myself into Angelo’s arms. “I’m sorry. I have trouble with sad stories.” I pull away from him.

“Why don’t you sit inside for a few minutes? Where it’s cool,” he says.

“No, I’m okay,” I tell him. I’m going to motor through this nightmare like an American.

“Are you all right?” Claudia asks when we return to the table.

“Va bene,” I assure her.

“The first time I had lardo, I overheated too,” Farah admits. “It’s so rich. But so delicious I can’t stop eating it!”

Angelo looks at me with concern. “So, we eat just a little. In the village we calllardo di Colonnata, ‘paté di povero uomo,’ the poor man’s pâté.”

“Well, the poor man’s pâté is too rich for this American’s blood,” I tell them.

Farah toasts our hostess. We raise our glasses to Claudia. My hand is so slippery from sweat, I raise the glass and drop it. It shatters on the slate floor.

“I’m so sorry. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

“No problem,signorina,” Claudia says, and pats my hand.

“We only break a glass at the best meals,” Mauro says.

“I’ve got it.” Angelo gets up and goes for the broom. He sweeps the glass into the dustpan. “It’s good luck, Giuseppina,” Angelo assures me.

Is it?I wonder.

Dr. Scott listensattentively over Zoom as I share the details I learned about Uncle Louie at lunch. Thera-Me thankfully has an emergency feature that connects you quickly with a therapist when the patient feels in crisis.

Dr. Scott listens, then asks, “Miss B, how is something that happened to your uncle over fifty years ago your concern?”

“This is my family. We take care of one another. I found out that I have a cousin I didn’t know existed, and my mother has a nephew.I am the only person on the American side of the family who knows about Mauro.”

“You say it will hurt your aunt. Your deceased uncle’s widow?”

“I don’t know for sure. Mauro was born before they met. But it would open old wounds.”

“So, you are concerned about her feelings if this truth is revealed?”

“Of course. She wanted children and couldn’t have them.”

“So why do you feel compelled to bring your new cousin into the fold at all?”

If I had to bet, I’d imagine Dr. Scott is not of Italian descent. This therapist is starting to bug me. He either doesn’t get it or I’m not explaining my family dynamic very well. Didn’t he read my file? Family is the center of our universe, never mind if the center is a red sun or a poisoned meatball atla tavola. It’s our reality, our truth, our facts—which belong to the group. Over these months, I’ve been working hard to come up with a plan that helps me embrace my kin, flaws and all, along with any dreams and hopes I have for my own life. This therapist is acting like I can’t have both.

“Dr. Scott. The truth matters in this situation. I don’t believe there are accidents. I came to Italy to find outwhyI am who I am. My cousin Mauro is part of the story now. He is a member of my family. We don’t leave people in the street when we find out we’re related. We welcome them inside to assume their place in the story.”

I may need another therapy session to unravel the last one. Smokey sleeps on my lap as I study the series of photographs of young Claudia and Louie. It’s crazy to admit, but I think Claudia and Lil could be friends—although I don’t know if I want to put my aunt through any of this. Maybe Dr. Scott has a point. What good will come of revealing this story now? It’s not my story to tell.It was Uncle Louie’s, but he didn’t know it. What becomes of a secret when the person holding it never knew about it?