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TWENTY-TWO

F allon

The grass is still wet from last night’s rain.

The ground gives under my heels as I step toward the temporary headstone, every inch of me wrapped in black.

A black dress. Black gloves. Black thoughts.

Though the sky is clear now, the kind of bright blue that feels like a trick, it’s too soft, too kind for a day like this.

There are no chairs. No priest. No guests.

Just us.

My father stands to my left, hands clenched behind his back. He’s wearing his wedding ring again, something he rarely wore because he was scared of ruining it or losing it at work.

Leone is silent, a dark figure beside me, his hand at the small of my back. Milo flanks the other side, face unreadable behind his sunglasses, his jaw’s clenched like he’s chewing back something sharp.

The twins Anya and Mila hold small wildflowers in their fists, picked from the edge of the cemetery as we walked in.

Their little shoes are muddy. Their dresses are too big.

They don’t fully understand what this is, they just know it matters because people look sad.

And then Emma, her eyes stare at the headstone, and she must be having the same thoughts as me.

How do you grieve a woman you hated, only she would have one other thing playing on her mind, added on top.

I’m not sure if that would make it easier or harder on her?

How do you grieve a woman you don’t remember?

We stand in silence for a beat too long, the breeze tugging at the hem of my dress. I step forward, alone.

Her headstone is simple. No quotes. No titles.

Rebecca. Beloved mother. Finally at peace.

I clear my throat, though the words are already stuck behind it.

“I don’t know how to do this,” I begin, my voice soft. “I don’t know how to bury someone who left such a complicated mark on my life.”

The silence hangs thick, like the air before a storm.

Leone’s hand digs into my back, not gentle and not harsh either—more like a nudge saying, “Keep going,” or maybe just reminding me he’s got my back.

As if I could forget. Milo stands frozen in place, as if carved from stone.

Emma’s eyes are glued to the gravestone, her expression haunted and distant, as though she expects it to leap up and bite her.

I stare at the name etched into the cold granite, struggling. I try to summon any warm memories of her.

“She did what she had to,” I murmur, more for myself than anyone else. The words hang in the air between us like fragile threads connecting past and present.

The twins, Anya and Mila, step forward, clumsy and sweet. They lay their wildflowers on the mound of dirt. Mud smears on Mila’s pale pink dress. They peer up at me, their eyes wide and questioning, expecting some kind of cue.

I offer them a small, tight smile that doesn’t reach my eyes. “It’s okay,” I whisper, though it’s a lie. Nothing about this is okay.

Taking a deep breath, I reach into the small clutch I’m carrying. My fingers close around a single, wilting black rose – one I’d plucked from Leone’s gardens near the front gates, its thorns pricking my gloved palm.

“This is for the darkness you suffered,” I say, my voice a little stronger now, a little harder. “And for the strength you gave us because of it.” I toss the rose onto the grave. It lands starkly against the raw earth.

I step aside, letting the words settle. Anya and Mila come forward without prompting. They each place a flower at the base of the stone. Anya kisses it, pressing her lips against the hard stone. Mila just leans her cheek against it for a moment before turning back and gripping my father’s pant leg.

He lifts them both, one in each arm, like they’re part of him.

His eyes find mine. I walk closer to him, stopping only inches away. “How are you… really?”

His face folds. Not into tears—into something softer. Wearier.

“Barely,” he says. “But… they help.”

He tilts his chin at the twins, now clinging to his shirt with their little fists

“You mean that, don’t you?” I ask. My voice isn’t accusing. Just quiet. Tired while trying to understand where my father’s head is at.

“Your mother was the only woman I ever loved. They may not be mine by blood, but they were hers. That’s all that matters to me.”

I blink back the sudden sting behind my eyes. He reaches into his coat pocket and pulls something out, its folded piece of paper.

“I found this in Anya’s backpack. I think…

I think she wanted it to be read when you were ready.

” He places it in my palm, and I swear I feel it buzz with quiet energy.

“Your mother wrote one for each of you. She knew she wasn’t getting out, Firefly, she only intended for you and the girls to escape.

” I swallow down his words painfully. I don’t open it. Not yet.

We leave the cemetery quietly. No one speaks much on the drive back.

The twins are asleep before we’re even out of the gate.

Dad rests his head back, eyes closed, breathing deep like it’s the only thing keeping him sane, and Emma stares out the window vacantly, I nudge her with my foot, and she smiles sadly.

Rocco drives. Milo’s in the back of the limousine with me and Leone. One hand resting on my thigh, grounding me. My fingers toy with the folded letter in my lap. We drop my sisters and father back home before heading home ourselves. Today doesn’t feel real, none of it does, maybe it never will.

Halfway through the drive, something stirs low in my belly. A flutter. Barely there.

I freeze.

And then it comes again, light, like butterfly wings brushing the inside of me.

Milo notices my breath catch. “Fallon?”

I press a hand to my stomach, eyes wide.

“I think… I think I just felt it move.”

Leone stares down at me. His eyes go soft, all the hardness bleeding away in an instant. Leone turns, rests his palm gently over mine, and for a second, we just exist there waiting yet the feeling doesn’t come again; still, I definitely felt it.

When we are nearly home, I open the letter.

Fallon,

If you’re reading this, that means you got out and I didn’t.

There are things I wish I could say to your face, I don’t get that luxury. I don’t get to hold you, or touch your hair, or hear you say my name without anger in your voice. I won’t get to see the woman you’ve become, not the way I should have.

I want you to know I have always loved you. Even when it looked like I didn’t. Especially then, that was when I loved you the most because I was always hoping to come back to you.

I know what you must think of me. I know what I left behind.

I know how it must’ve felt, to be the one I didn’t take with me.

To have to help raise your sister, and watch your father disappear into grief, and still try to hold it all together like it was your job.

You were just a child, and I made you the adult. For that, I’m sorry.

There are no good explanations for the choices I made. Only reasons. And even those aren’t good enough. If you want the truth, here it is:

It wasn’t safe, Mikhail would have come after you and even if he didn’t kill you all, your life would have been no better.

That’s why I left you behind.

You had your father. You had school, or at least I thought you did until you told me about Gertrude.

You had some version of normal. I didn’t want to drag you into the fire with me again.

I couldn’t let you grow up with the worst of who I was.

Or be punished for my mistakes. You would’ve hated the version of me I became in order to keep the girls safe. Hell, I hated her most days.

I know you’ve probably hated me longer than you remember loving me. That’s okay. I earned that hate. I let it happen because I thought it meant you were surviving.

I thought I’d have time to explain all this to you someday. I thought I’d get to look you in the eye and say, “I’m sorry.” Not just for leaving but for leaving you with the weight of it all.

You were always strong. Always brave. I see now that I asked you to be too much, too soon. I turned my firstborn daughter into a shield for the whole family. And you never dropped it.

I am so, so proud of you.

When I saw you at the club that night, you were as beautiful as I imagined you to be, I just wanted to hug you, tell you I loved you and it broke me, because I knew I hadn’t earned the right to tell you that.

So I’ll say it now: I love you, Fallon. And every day that went by I never stopped. A lot of the time it’s what kept me alive thinking that one day I could come home to you and Emma.

I hope you find peace in your life, Fallon. I hope you stop carrying the guilt that belongs to me. I hope you let someone love you. Let them hold you when you’re tired. Let them carry some of the weight.

Let yourself be happy.

You deserve it.

And if you ever doubt that, just know:

You were never the girl I gave up.

You were the girl I trusted to make it out because I knew you would.

With all the love I couldn’t show you,

—Mom

The paper trembles in my hands. I don’t cry, not the way I expected to. It’s quieter than that. Like a breath held too long finally let out. A door closing with the softest click.

Milo doesn’t say anything. He just rests his head against mine, the side of his hand brushing my thigh.

Leone reaches for my free hand, and for once, I let both of them touch me without needing to flinch, without needing to be the strong one.

Because maybe Mom was right.

Maybe I really can put it down now.

The past is buried.

All what’s left is us.