Chapter 15 Viviana
VIVIANA
The moment I walk inside the house, my mother wraps me in a hug, and I inhale a long breath to steady myself. Home should be the place you feel most like yourself. In my case, it has always been the place where I’ve had to lock everything deep inside of me, so no genuine emotion slips out.
“My beautiful baby,” she coos. “I’ve made all your favorite foods.”
I smile, knowing my parents love me, but they are also products of their upbringing and circumstances.
Hugging her back, I say, “You didn’t have to.”
She palms my face. “Nonsense. Let me look at you.”
I gulp. Keeping her gaze, I school my features into a neutral expression, hoping that nothing betrays me.
Luckily, my father rounds the corner, enveloping me in a big hug. “I am not letting you leave again. I’ve missed you too much.”
My smile remains plastered on my face even though my insides shudder. His words cause mayhem, broadcasting a deep-rooted fear that on one of these visits, he’ll announce my marriage and then the walls will close in on me, unable to break free.
Someone from the staff reaches for my suitcase, but my father grabs it and together with my mom, we walk upstairs to my room.
It’s the same as I left it. Peachy, rosy-toned walls, carpeted floor, and immaculate white furniture—innocent like my parents wish to keep me, yet Tristan has dirtied me up, fucking it out of me, one hard thrust at a time, while I loved every moment.
Nothing has changed. Just me. Only thinking about Tristan sends a rush of emotions through me. I’d rather be with him at the beach house, riding Altea, where I can be myself, and there’s no pressure to act a certain way.
“My precious girl,” my father says, looking at me with so much pride.
Guilt strikes me so swiftly and starkly that my breathing becomes labored.
“Dinner will be served shortly,” my mom announces.
“When will Chiara be here?” I ask, and my father’s mood instantly plummets.
“Whenever she sees fit,” he grumbles, and they walk out of my room.
I suppress a sigh at noticing my mother caressing his arm as if he’s the one needing comfort as they amble down the hallway.
Guilt. Guilt. And more guilt tightens the invisible collar around my neck.
Even after all these years, they still don’t understand Chiara.
But Cato, her husband, embraces that rebellious side, loving her for exactly who she is, giving her so much strength that she does not give a damn how others perceive her.
It must feel cathartic to her. And I am all for that.
Alone in my room, I pace, breathing in and out in a soothing rhythm. One weekend. I can do this.
My parents love me, I remind myself. Love me so much because I am a dutiful daughter. I am too chicken to crumble their expectations.
When I think I have my facial expression trained not to betray anything, I walk toward my Nonna’s room. Poking my head inside, not to wake her up in case she’s napping, she welcomes me with a heartfelt smile.
I rush to her, dropping to my knees as we hug.
“My bella figlia. I’ve missed you.”
“Missed you too, Nonna.”
She grips my chin, eyeing me intently. “You seem different. Glowing.”
I stiffen, avoiding her gaze, and she sighs. “I want you to be happy.”
“I am,” I quickly answer, this time not even lying.
She tilts her head, her voice softens in concern. “If we don’t live our authentic selves, we can never truly be happy.”
“I’m not Chiara.”
The lines in the corners of her eyes stretch, bearing the marks of her acquired wisdom. “Chiara is a warrior, Viviana. You’re the flower that adapts, breaking through cement and blooming despite the harsh conditions. Inside you lies a silent power that’s quite enviable.”
A small smile tugs at my lips at hearing that.
Ruckus ensues, the sound traveling up to the second floor.
“The warrior has arrived.” Nonna smiles, and I kiss her cheek, rushing downstairs.
My sister is a force, commanding attention. Chiara has it all and isn’t shy about letting everyone know she’s a happy wife, a fulfilled mother, and a successful jewelry company owner.
From the top of the stairs, I observe them interacting. It’s always with a certain coldness and distance.
My mother thrusts her arms out for her grandchild, and my sister hands Celia over. For a minuscule moment, I catch the longing there, but it disappears as soon as it appears.
“She looks just like you,” my father says, and Chiara’s spine stiffens.
“You mean perfect?” her husband says from behind her, his cold eyes fixing on my father.
Chiara tilts her head to him, grinning so brightly, I expect Cato to light up.
“She has your eyes though.”
“You loved them so much, our daughter took those from me.”
As they exchange a heartfelt moment, my mother fusses over the little one before my father takes her, his hard posture softening.
Chiara looks around, and when she notices me, she squeals. We take off, clashing in a big hug in the middle of the staircase.
“I’ve missed you. Come visit me more often,” she chastises me.
“Just this year left of college.”
She nudges my side, pride etched in her features. “Still the best in your class?”
“Of course.”
“So, no distractions?” She eyes me with a twinkle. It’s like she wants me to confirm.
“Chiara…” I try for a chastising tone, but fail.
She pouts. “No fun.”
She goes back to her husband and lifts onto her toes to smack his lips with a big kiss.
“After the meeting, I’ll pick you up.”
She nods and accompanies him out, where they kiss again, much to my father’s dismay, who mumbles, “No respect.”
“Amore,” my mother says as I approach them and tap my niece’s nose. At two years old, she’s the most beautiful little thing I have seen. I might be her aunt, but I am not biased.
She stretches out her little hands toward me, and I pick her up from my father, holding her.
These tiny beings offer you so much love and warmth; the feeling is indescribable.
I don’t want kids. His words ring through my head, clenching my heart into an unyielding grip.
When Chiara returns, we head up the stairs, giggling as we go.
We visit Nonna first, and she holds the little one in her arms. “Oh, she’s a firecracker, this one.”
“I know,” my sister sighs dreamily.
“Must be karma.”
She elbows me. “Both Cato and I had little hope she would be anything else,” she says, looking adoringly at her daughter but also with relief. No one will ever clip Celia’s wings. No one would even dare to try.
While Nonna busies herself with the little one, we sit on the plush rug and I ask, “How have you been? How are the girls?”
I might be her sister by blood, but the other three women are the sisters she chose.
The pang of jealousy disappears as quickly as it appears. I want my sister to be loved and happy, knowing she found her place, her tribe.
As she tells me everything new about Aurora, Alessandra, and Violet, she pats the seat in front of her. That’s her signal to braid my hair.
It’s our thing.
Time with her passes way too quickly, and I promise myself to visit her more.
When dinner is announced, Chiara picks up Celia, who rests her head on her shoulder as my sister brushes her back.
She is as dedicated a mother as she is in everything she loves.
“I’m happy for you,” I say, my voice taking on a nostalgic tilt.
She halts at the top of the stairs, looking me straight in the eyes. “No one will fight for what you want if you don’t.”
I nod dejectedly, and she exhales a long breath. “Oh, Viv. Stop choosing to be loved at the cost of your well-being. Fuck whoever doesn’t love you for who you are.”
I met someone who does, but I’ve conditioned myself for so many years that I wouldn’t even know how to behave differently.
At the dining table, she feeds Celia one bite and then herself before she lets the little one feed herself. I giggle at the mess she is causing.
“She will be uncivilized,” my father groans under his breath.
My sister is about to open her mouth when I say, “Papa, please.”
He casts a look my way of utter disbelief.
“Celia is a happy kid who is lucky to have the best mother.”
My sister’s eyes glisten, not expecting me to side with her. She is used to fighting her own battles.
“Your father is right. Kids need discipline.”
Chiara just shakes her head at our mother. Being happy and content made her more immune to the jabs, I guess.
“I know best what my kid needs. My husband and I. Keep your unsolicited advice to yourselves.” Then she leans back and lets Celia play with the food.
“It’s the right thing to do, so Celia can learn to feed herself,” I say, and my father scrunches his brow, staring at me as if I had betrayed him.
My sister does as many things right. No parent is perfect.
“Your sister is correct,” he says, giving me a candid look betraying his wish for Chiara to have resembled me more, not shying from letting everyone know who his favorite daughter is.
A headache throbs behind my temples, and I rub them absentmindedly.
Trying to salvage the tension before it ends up in a screaming match, I rush to ask my sister. “Any plans for tomorrow?”
Chiara eyes me with an apologetic glance, silently telling me she loves me, but she can’t be here two times in a row and keep her shit.
Understanding, I nod.
“I would like to see the girls and the other babies.” I look at my parents making that pleading face they can’t refuse.
They nod, and Chiara smiles, knowing my tactics.
She stands up with Celia in her arms as Cato enters the dining room. Their telepathic connection must be strong.
He greets me with a brief and courteous nod before he moves to kiss his wife and picks up Celia, who immediately falls asleep in her daddy’s arms.
There’s a somber cloud floating around his head, and Chiara brushes his arm to soothe him.
Saying goodbye, they leave.
“They’re going to see what it does to them if they let her do whatever she wants,” my father mutters.
“She’s a baby, Papa.”