40. Penelope
PENELOPE
I was walking through my parents’ house, drowning in my own grief, when the phone in my hand buzzed. Then it buzzed again, and again. I glanced at the screen, noting the group chat was littered with broken heart and sad face emojis.
Amara: I’m so sorry, Pen. Tell us what you need. Want us to come ahead of the funeral? Anything you need, just say it. We’re here.
Skye: Amara will live forever in your and our hearts.
Hannah: We love you.
Arianna: You’re not alone. Amara will forever be a part of us.
Hannah: Hang in there, cuz.
My fingers trembled as I typed a reply.
Me: Thank you. I just can’t believe she’s gone. I keep expecting to see her.
Hannah: I wish… Gosh, I wish I’d been a match.
We all did , I thought sadly. It was one of the cruelties thrown into our lives when we learned none of us was a match.
Anya: I know this is cliché, but she’s in a better place. No more suffering. We love you, Pen.
Arianna: Yes, we love you, cuz.
Hannah: We’ll miss her forever, but she’d want you to live, Pen. Don’t let her down and dwell on the pain and bad things.
I read and re-read the last message, hoping it meant that my cousin Hannah was healing.
Arianna: Live happily. Her memories will forever be part of you and all of us.
Me: You’re right. She’d want that.
My parents’ voices traveled through the manor, pulling me away from my friends’ and cousins’ condolences.
“I can’t!” Mama shouted.
The office door was slightly ajar. Voices and sobs drifted down the long corridor, muted and broken, like waves crashing on distant shorelines.
Mama’s cries had softened now. The fury was gone, replaced by an aching sorrow.
“What am I going to do, Luca?” she wept. “How can I live without her?”
“She would want us to… live,” Papà said. His voice cracked around the word.
He was right. Amara would have wanted us to keep going. She enjoyed being fussed over—but not like this. Not buried under pity and despair. Still, the idea of moving on felt impossible. Like learning to breathe underwater.
I found myself drifting closer, my footsteps silent on the rug.
“This is my punishment,” Mama whispered. “I took Penelope away from you, and God took my baby…”
Her voice broke.
Blood drained from my face as my stomach turned to stone. I stood frozen, caught between their grief and mine.
“No, Margaret,” Papà said. “She’s sick…” He paused, the present tense hanging in the air like a wound.
Then his voice hardened. “She was sick,” he said again, harsher now, as if the correction itself tore something open.
“And she was so brave. Brave in ways no child should ever have to be. Not even for us.”
“We should’ve gone to the black market. To hell with honor. To hell with doing the right thing.” Her voice cracked again. “They can’t say it’s wrong when they haven’t seen their child suffer. They didn’t lose a child.”
She began to sob—loud, broken sobs that echoed off the walls.
“Don’t you think I wanted to?” he roared. “Amara refused.”
The blood pounded in my ears. My knees buckled.
“You asked her?” Mama gasped.
“I did. Several times. The last time was the day she died. She told me an angel had asked her the same question. She refused because she couldn’t stand the idea of someone else dying for her.”
“Why did you tell her that someone would die for it, Luca?” Mama screamed.
“I didn’t,” he said hoarsely. “But she was… she was smart. Too smart.”
Just then, another wail shattered the air—and arms wrapped gently around me.
I looked up through the blur of tears and into my husband’s face.
“Shhh. I got you,” he whispered.
He lifted me into his arms. I clung to him, burying my face into his chest as the tears came harder, unstoppable. His scent wrapped around me like a shelter, steady and warm, while my world came apart in his arms.
A bell tolled in the distance.
My husband’s firm fingers gripped my hand tighter, grounding me. Yet, not even his warmth could stop this cold from crawling up my body and spreading like the cancer that killed my sister.
The very same bells that announced my wedding were now announcing death.
Their slow, deliberate chimes echoed through the city, the breeze carrying its symphony and dragging my heart with it. I could feel their weight, hammering into my soul the truth that I struggled to accept.
She’s gone. She’s gone. She’s gone.
The church loomed ahead, exactly as it did the day my nonno died. Just as it did that day, not too long ago, when I said “I do.”
We entered the church, my husband’s hand squeezing mine, reminding me that I wasn’t alone. Only, I felt more alone than ever before. Grief had been a hollow companion in the past few days while he’d been handling business.
“She’d want you here,” I would say, but he wouldn’t listen. He needed to stay busy, likely knowing that if he’d crumbled along with the rest of us, we’d never have made it here today.
My heels clicked on the stone floor with a cruel echo, adding to the soft sobs that traveled through the air. The scent of flowers hit me like a punch. Bouquets of white lilies dominated the room, but they made the colorful roses stand out starkly in the dull gray church.
“She would have liked all the color,” Enzo rasped.
I clutched his arm, my fingers digging into his coat. He didn’t flinch, just kept walking with me, steady and unshaken, while I wanted to scream.
I wanted to hug her one more time. Kiss her one more time. Tell her I love her—for the last time.
The white casket at the altar was small. Too small.
She was supposed to stay. She should’ve outlived me.
Instead, she lay there wearing a white dress and a crown of lilies.
We sat in the front pew, the world tilting. My husband’s hand never left mine, yet somehow he felt worlds away. Just like my baby sister.
The priest began in Italian. “We gather here today and choose to believe our dear Amara is at peace, watching down on this congregation with Pascale DiMauro, her beloved nonno.”
My throat tightened. I didn’t even notice the tears until they hit my lips, tasting salty.
“Nonno wouldn’t want her to join him so soon,” I whispered, clutching his hand tighter. I was afraid that if I let go, I would dissolve completely. Or maybe he would, I wasn’t sure.
His arm wrapped around me, warm and strong. He pressed a kiss to my temple. And we sat there, surrounded by bouquets of flowers and my baby sister in permanent silence.
It was time for her to rest. And I hated it. I hated every minute of it.