Page 26 of Brutal Vows

“Yes!”

She clucks. “Thepiccolina principessais going to be married to the same idiot for the rest of her life, Reyna. She deserves to live a little first.”

When I only stand there staring at her in disbelief, she says more softly, “It’s one of my great regrets that I didn’t allow the same freedom for you.”

After a moment of profound shock, I say faintly, “Please hold. My brain has melted.”

She turns and makes her way to the kitchen table, hobbling with the help of her cane, then drops into a chair and sighs.

Dressed all in black—as all widows in the family dress, regardless of how long their husbands have been dead—she looks much older than her sixty-five years.

She’s never colored her gray hair and wears it shorn close to her head like a man’s. The style of dress she wears is frumpy and unflattering. She’s not overweight, but she refuses to do anything whatsoever to make herself even slightly attractive, including wearing makeup or updating her eyeglasses to a style from this century.

After my father was killed, she simply gave up.

I know it wasn’t from grief. I think it’s that she never wanted another man to notice her again.

Life with my rageaholic Sicilian father was hell for all of us.

Especially after she was diagnosed with MS and he brought his twenty-two-year-old mistress to live in the guest cottage so he didn’t have to “fuck a cripple,” as he put it.

Watching my mother hold her head high and grit her teeth through all his cruelty and indiscretions taught me to have the same strength when my own husband turned out to be worse than my father ever was.

So much worse, I never could have imagined it.

Gazing at me fondly, Mamma says, “You’re the best thing I’ve done with my life,stellina. I’m very proud of you.”

I have to turn back to the pot on the stove so she doesn’t see the water welling in my eyes.

My mother giving me a compliment is an event as rare as a UFO sighting.

I murmur a thank-you, staring at the water and willing it to boil so I’ll have something to do other than struggle with this awful feeling in my chest.

Anger is so much easier for me to deal with than tenderness.

Anger gives you armor. Tenderness strips you naked to the bone.

“You would’ve made an excellent mother,” she continues in a thoughtful tone. “It’s a pity you couldn’t have children. Or should I say… made sure you couldn’t.”

When I glance at her, startled all over again, she chuckles.

“I don’t blame you,tesoro. Enzo as a father?” She shudders. “You were smarter than I was. Not that I’m saying I regret my children, mind you. You’re the love of my life.” She thinks for a moment. “Your brother, meh.”

I laugh. “I know you don’t mean that. He’s the firstborn and a boy. It would be a crime punishable by death in Sicily if you didn’t love him the most.”

She shrugs. “Then it’s lucky we’re not in Sicily.”

I scoff. “Oh, Mamma. You’ve been at the wine again.”

“No, but that reminds me,” she says, perking up to look over at the wine cooler next to the refrigerator. “How about a nice Pinot Noir?”

“Since when do you drink anything but Chianti?”

“Since I started watching this charming young man on YouTube with his own channel all about wine.”

“You’re watching YouTube?”

She nods as if her deciding to get on the internet isn’t as monumental as the moon landing. Up until last year, she’d still been using a rotary phone.