Chapter 22
“Every star can be a guide.”
Cecily
“Mom!”
Ethan’s voice pulls me out of my thoughts just in time to catch his reflection in the window as he walks into the kitchen.
“A delivery guy stopped by and left this box for you,” he says, the smile evident in his tone.
I turn just as he sets a gift box down on the island.
“Ethan! You and Alicia didn’t have to get me anything else!” I say, smiling.
They’d already surprised me earlier this morning, making it the best start to a day I’ve had in a long time.
“Mom?”
I hear Alicia’s soft voice from the bedroom. I quickly dry my mouth with a towel and step out of the bathroom.
The moment I walk through the doorway, I see Ethan holding a plate full of cupcakes. The one in the center is topped with a single candle. A smile finds my lips, and my eyes sting as tears begin to form.
As soon as I look up, they both start singing. “Happy birthday...”
When it’s time to say my name, they switch to ‘The best mom in the whole world’ just like they do every year. And, just like every year, I laugh through it.
I walk toward them, blinking away the tears. When they finish singing, I blow out the candle and make my wish… for their happiness, for their lives to always be blessed.
I open my eyes, take the plate from Ethan’s hands, and set it on the small desk near the window. Then I pull them both into my arms, holding on for a long moment.
When I finally pull back, I kiss each of them and whisper my thanks.
I’m still smiling when Alicia reaches out and hands me a small box. I open it. Inside is a bracelet with three tiny charms. I lift it to eye level, studying every detail.
“The ballet shoes are for me, obviously,” she says. “The pencil’s for Ethan, because he loves to draw... and the typewriter’s for you, Mom. Because, well... you love to write.”
The tears fall before I can stop them.
“You don’t like it, Mom?” Alicia asks, worried.
“Come on, Buttercup. You know Mom cries watching sad puppy videos,” Ethan teases, looping an arm around his sister. “We nailed it.”
“You did,” I whisper. “I couldn’t have asked for a better gift than having you two as my children.”
We hug again, and then they tug me down the stairs toward the kitchen, where breakfast waits.
I eat with a smile the whole time, not caring that the pancakes are a little burnt, or that they probably forgot the salt in the scrambled eggs, or that this might just be the strongest coffee I’ve ever tasted.
None of that matters. All that matters is the gesture.
And seeing them right here in front of me, smiling, making plans for how we’ll spend the rest of the day together.
“Oh— it’s not from us, Mom.”
Ethan’s voice pulls me back to the present.
I look at the black box tied with a blue ribbon and suddenly it feels different beneath my gaze.
My heart stutters, a faint tremor running through me as possibilities crowd my mind.
You’ll never have to hear about our family ever again.
Was she lying? Is this box another fragment of my father’s past?
“You okay, Mom? You look... kind of weird all of a sudden.” Ethan’s voice comes closer, laced with concern.
I force a smile and meet his eyes. “Of course. I just got lost in thought for a second, that’s all.”
“Do you want me to open it for you?” he asks gently.
Clever, as always. Of course he noticed the shift. How my expression faltered the moment I realized the box wasn’t from him and Alicia.
“No,” I say quickly. “I’ll take it upstairs and open it later. If Mark gets here before I’m done, tell him I won’t be long.”
I smile again and kiss his cheek before picking up the box, careful not to let him see my hands shake.
It’s heavier than I expected. Each step up the stairs feels like walking toward something I’m not ready to face, and by the time I reach the top, my heart is pounding so hard I can feel it in my throat.
In my bedroom, I set the box down on the desk.
That’s when I notice an envelope tucked beneath the blue ribbon tied along the side. I pull it free, but I don’t open it yet. I’m more afraid of the words it might hold than whatever waits inside the box itself.
I untie the ribbon, my hands trembling. I draw in a slow breath and lift the lid.
For a moment, I just stare, trying to make sense of what I’m seeing... and still dreading what might be hidden inside the wooden box resting within. I lift it gently and place it beside the gift box. When I open it, there’s a leather-bound notebook inside.
I pick it up with trembling fingers and realize it’s a diary. My heart beats faster, but when I flip it open, relief washes over me.
Every page is blank.
I glance back into the box and find a slim case nestled inside. Opening it, I discover an elegant pen, fine-tipped, with silver letters engraved across the barrel: Cecily Sterling.
I stare at my name, tracing the letters with my thumb. And then, finally, I gather enough courage to open the envelope.
I remember seeing on your blog bio that February 21st is your birthday.
I also remember reading in a few of your early posts that journaling has always been a part of who you are.
Something that gives you space to breathe and take everything in.
There weren’t any recent mentions, so I don’t know if that’s still true.
But I found this in an antique shop in Milan, and it made me think of you.
Happy birthday, Cecily. May you and your family receive all the blessings you deserve.
Alexander Santoro
P.S. I hope this isn’t intrusive. Please feel free to refuse the present if I’ve crossed any lines.
I exhale in relief and sink into the armchair, one hand pressed gently to my chest, the other still holding the card. I’m smiling.
Alexander.
For a moment, I thought this would be yet another secret from the past that would bring more pain to my family. But it’s only... a kind gesture.
I reach for the diary once more, running my fingertips over the grain of the leather and the cream-colored pages. When I lift it closer to my face, there’s a subtle scent of lemongrass that makes me smile.
Still, I set it aside, because the wooden box it came in draws my attention again.
Every inch of it is carved with intricate details. Across the lid, I can clearly make out lilies and zinnias etched into the wood... and a third flower, equally beautiful. It reminds me of a rose, but with more layers, more petals. Unfamiliar yet mesmerizing.
When I turn it in my hands, I notice a phrase engraved along the lower edge:
“Ogni stella può essere una guida: per chi naviga, per chi cammina ma anche per chi cresce.”
I open my phone and search for the translation. The moment I read it, my heart stills.
“Every star can be a guide: for those who sail, for those who walk, and also for those who grow.” — Miranda Ranalli.
I press my hand to my chest again. I can’t quite explain why, but the words move me.
Carefully, I set the box back on the desk, as if it were made of glass instead of wood. I look at it—at both the wooden box and the diary resting beside it—and feel a quiet warmth bloom in my chest.
I reach for my phone, thinking I should send him a text, a simple thank-you. But it feels too impersonal after the care he put into such a thoughtful gift.
The call rings and rings until it goes to voicemail. I sigh, surprised by the sting of disappointment, and open the messaging app instead.
Hi, Alexander—
I’ve barely finished typing when the phone vibrates in my hand. I draw in a deep breath, wait a few seconds, and answer.
“Hello.”
“Sorry I missed your call… I was in a meeting,” he says. Then, his voice softens. “Hello, Cecily.”
I can’t help but smile. Now that I know where that faint accent comes from, it’s impossible not to notice it, especially when he says my name.
“I didn’t mean to interrupt—”
“You’re not interrupting,” he says, his tone patient. “They can continue without me. If you called, I assume there’s a reason.”
I close my eyes for a second, suddenly shy. “Now I feel a little silly. It’s nothing urgent. I just... wanted to thank you. The gift is beautiful. I probably should’ve just sent a text.”
“You liked it, then?” There’s a smile in his voice now.
I stretch my hand across the desk, my fingertips brushing over the carved flowers on the lid.
“Very much. I can’t decide what I love more. The pen, the diary, or the box they came in. But if I’m honest, it’s the box that has me mesmerized. The details, the engraving about the stars... I had to Google the quote. It’s stunning.”
He chuckles. “I’m glad you liked it enough to call. The diary is an artisanal piece, crafted by the shop owner’s grandfather. I can get you more if you’ve gone back to journaling.”
His kindness moves me, but I can’t let him do that. “Thank you, Alexander, but that’s not necessary. If you could just share the name of the shop—especially where you found the box—I’d love that. It’s exquisite work.”
There’s a pause on the line, the kind that makes me wonder if I’ve said too much.
“It’s...” He clears his throat. “Actually, that box isn’t made anymore. That model was unique.”
“Oh... that’s a shame,” I say, unable to hide my disappointment.
Again, a pause. “I can check if there’s something similar.”
“No, please—don’t trouble yourself,” I reply quickly. “It’s already inspired me to look for something like it on my own.”
The line goes silent for a few seconds, but it isn’t awkward. I stay still, listening to the faint sound of his breathing.
“How are you, Cecily?”
I think for a moment before answering.
“Today? I’m good,” I say honestly. “My kids surprised me this morning. They gave me a beautiful, unexpected gift. And then yours arrived... so yes, it’s been a lovely day. I plan to spend the rest of it with them. I really can’t complain, can I?”
“I’m glad to hear that,” he says, and I can hear the smile in his tone. It makes me smile too.