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VALENTINA

F ive Years Later

The sound of my son’s laughter pulls me from sleep like a ribbon unwinding in slow, lazy circles.

I blink against the sunlight spilling through the curtains, golden and warm, and let the familiar hum of life fill my ears.

Outside, the faint clatter of a neighbor’s morning espresso cups drifts through the open window, mingling with the chirp of birds flitting between lemon trees.

Sicily feels alive, a heartbeat pulsing under its sun-soaked hills, and for the first time in a long while, so do I.

I push back the soft linen sheets and slip my feet onto the cool terracotta tiles, stretching until my muscles hum. The house is modest but mine, a sanctuary built brick by brick from the ashes of my old life. Each creak of the wooden floorboards tells a story, one that doesn’t end with fear.

“ Vieni qui , Mamma!” my son calls from the living room, his voice bright and sweet like the orange blossoms outside.

I smile despite myself, letting his excitement guide me down the hallway.

The walls are painted a warm ochre, sunlight dancing across them as I pass framed sketches of market stalls, quiet seasides, and the little vineyard just outside town.

It’s a house I’ve made. My boy is sprawled on the floor in the living room, his curly hair a wild halo around his cherubic face.

A small wooden car zooms across the tiles in his chubby hand.

“Mamma, guarda !” he exclaims, holding up the toy like a prize.

I crouch beside him, ruffling his hair. “ Sei così bravo, amore mio ,” I murmur, my chest tightening as he beams with pride.

Luca’s eyes stare back at me from his tiny face, that same molten brown that shifts with his moods. It’s a bittersweet ache, seeing him so vividly in our son. There are days I can’t look for too long without my throat closing, but today isn’t one of them.

“Can I play outside, Mamma?” he asks, already scrambling to his feet. His little legs barely keep up with his enthusiasm as he races to the door.

“After breakfast,” I say, catching him by the waist with practiced ease. “We need to eat first. You’re getting as skinny as a bird!”

He giggles and wiggles free, darting to the kitchen.

I follow at a slower pace, letting the rhythm of our morning settle me.

Sicily has taught me the art of patience—the slow drip of coffee, the steady warmth of fresh bread cooling on the counter, the gentle breeze that carries the scent of rosemary and citrus into every corner of this house.

I brew my espresso, stirring in a touch of sugar, while my son demolishes his small plate of figs and ricotta.

He’s already chattering about his plans for the day: helping our neighbor pick grapes, chasing the stray cat that suns itself near the piazza, and climbing trees until his hands are sticky with sap.

The sugariness of his words soothes me as I sip my coffee and glance out the window.

The rolling hills stretch endlessly, dotted with olive groves and clusters of whitewashed villas.

The sea glimmers in the distance, like a sparkling promise of freedom.

It’s breathtaking, but there’s always a hollow part of me that the view can’t quite fill.

“Can we go to the market today, Mamma?”

I smile at him, brushing away the pang of longing that always lingers just below the surface. “Yes, tesoro . But you have to behave this time, okay?”

He grins, all dimples and mischief, and I know I’ve already lost the battle.

We go to the market, which buzzes with life, as it does every Saturday.

Stalls brim with ripe tomatoes, vibrant peppers, and braided garlic.

The air is rich with the aroma of grilled seafood and the sweet tang of fresh citrus.

My son tugs at my hand, pulling me toward a stand selling tiny carved animals.

“Look, Mamma!” he says, pointing to a wooden horse.

The vendor smiles at him, pressing the toy into his hands. “ Un regalo ,” he says warmly. A gift.

I thank him with a nod, slipping a few coins into his basket anyway. My son clutches the horse like it’s the most precious thing in the world, and I can’t help but smile.

It’s moments like these that keep me grounded, keep me here. But they don’t erase the shadow that follows me, the one that whispers of a life I’ve left behind.

As we walk home, the whispers grow louder.

Memories of Luca flash through my mind unbidden: his rare, genuine smile, the heat of his gaze, the way his voice could command a room—and my heart.

I’ve told myself a thousand times that leaving was the right thing to do, that this quiet life in Sicily is what’s best for my son.

But what about me?

What about this gnawing emptiness, the ache that hasn’t dulled no matter how many sunrises I’ve watched rise over these hills?

“Are you okay, Mamma?” my son asks, his small hand slipping into mine.

I force a smile, squeezing his fingers. “I’m perfect, amore mio . Let’s go home.”

The walk is short, but the weight in my chest feels heavier with each step. By the time we’re back, the sun is high, casting sharp shadows across the courtyard. My son runs ahead, his laughter echoing against the walls.

I linger by the door, watching him play, and feel the ache swell to something unbearable. I don’t regret leaving Luca—not for the safety of my son. But I can’t deny it anymore: I miss him.

The rest of the day passes as it always does: in simple little joys. But my heart is uneasy today. Something is stirring.

I carry this restlessness to bed. It doesn’t fade, not when I try to sleep, and not even when the sun rises once again. Today, I have to go to the bakery. Leo will be joining me.

The cobblestones are still cool underfoot as we step onto the winding streets, my son’s small hand curled tightly in mine.

Morning light dapples the path, streaming through the dense canopy of olive trees that border the road.

The town hasn’t fully stirred yet, the world hushed except for the soft trill of birds and the rhythmic patter of the feet of the stray cat tailing us.

“Are we making cannoli today, Mamma?” he asks, his voice carrying that boundless excitement I’ve come to rely on. His cheeks are flushed from the walk, his little fingers pointing ahead like we’re on some grand adventure.

“Maybe,” I say, my smile lingering. “If we have enough ricotta left. Otherwise, you’ll have to settle for biscotti.”

“Biscotti’s good too,” he replies, grinning wide enough to show off his tiny teeth.

We turn the corner, and there it is: the bakery.

My bakery. Its soft blue shutters are propped open, the delicate scent of yeast and vanilla drifting into the quiet street.

The hand-painted sign above the door reads Dolce Vita , its golden lettering slightly worn from five years of sun and Sicilian rains.

This place is my heartbeat.

I feel the familiar swell of pride as I open the door, letting my son rush in ahead of me. His laughter fills the space, bouncing off the rustic stone walls and the rows of wooden shelves.

“Careful!” I call after him, though my smile betrays the warning.

The shop is modest but warm. Rustic shelves line the walls, displaying neatly arranged loaves of crusty bread, golden cornetti, and delicate pastries dusted with powdered sugar. A glass case by the counter gleams with cakes, their vibrant fruit glazes catching the light.

I set down my basket and tie on my apron, already feeling the calm routine settle over me. Here, I am not running, not hiding. I am simply Valentina Russo, the baker of Dolce Vita .

“Mamma, can I help today?” my son asks, pulling up a stool by the counter.

“You always help,” I say, brushing flour from his cheek. “You’re the best assistant I’ve ever had.”

His laugh is my favorite sound in the world.

I check the oven, where the first batch of bread has risen beautifully, the crust golden and perfect. I grab a paddle and pull them out one by one, their heat filling the air with a familiar, comforting warmth. My son’s eager hands reach for a loaf, and I swat them gently away.

“Too hot,” I say. “You’ll burn yourself.”

“Just one bite,” he pleads, his eyes wide with mock innocence.

“You’ll wait,” I say firmly, though I can’t help but laugh.

The bell above the door jingles, and I glance up to see Nonna Francesca, one of my first and most loyal customers. She shuffles in, her knitted shawl draped over her shoulders and her woven basket in hand.

“ Buongiorno, cara ,” she greets, her voice warm. “I smelled the bread from my window.”

“You always do,” I tease, grabbing a fresh loaf for her. “Still warm, just the way you like it.”

She smiles, slipping a few coins onto the counter before ruffling my son’s curls. He beams at her, holding up his wooden horse like it’s a treasure.

“Look, Nonna! Mamma and I are going to make biscotti later.”

“Ah, such a good helper,” she says, her eyes twinkling. “Your mamma is lucky to have you.”

As she leaves, my son jumps off the stool, darting toward the shelves. “I’ll make sure everything looks nice, Mamma!”

“Don’t climb the shelves,” I warn, though he’s already moving jars of marmalade into neater rows.

The quiet hum of the bakery wraps around me like a cocoon. The walls hold stories now—of mornings spent kneading dough, of neighbors gossiping over cappuccinos, of laughter that has filled every corner of this small but steady haven.

This shop saved me.

I glance at my son, who’s now inspecting the biscotti molds with the kind of intense focus only a child can muster.

His tiny face is a reminder of why I left, why I fought to build this life from nothing.

But the peace I’ve carved out feels fragile, like a loaf of bread just on the edge of being overproofed.

One wrong move and everything could collapse.

Shaking the thought away, I run my fingers along the counter, feeling the cool marble beneath my palm. This is my place, my rhythm, my escape.