Chapter 24
Chapter twenty-four
Liam
Iwake up alone in the bed.
That’s unusual. Nicky is normally the last one to get up, claiming that early mornings are punishments from a vengeful god. But when I reach across to his side of the bed, the sheets are cold, which means he’s been gone for hours.
I know exactly why.
I pull on a robe and pad barefoot to the kitchen, where I find him exactly as I expected.
He’s sitting at the table, cradling a cup of coffee that looks like it went cold hours ago, staring out the window at the gray December morning.
His shoulders are slumped, and there’s a subdued, sad air about him that makes my chest ache with sympathy.
“Do you want to visit her grave?” I say softly.
Nicky looks up, startled perhaps that I know what’s on his mind. But of course I know. December fifteenth. The anniversary of Marianna’s death.
As he stares at me, some of his sadness seems to leach away. Not because the grief is any less, but because it’s shared now. Because he doesn’t have to carry it alone.
I loved his mother probably as much as he did.
She was a wonderful woman who warmly took on the mother figure I so badly needed in my life.
When my dad was too caught up in his new relationship to notice his son was struggling, and my mother nothing more than a hazy memory after choosing drug addiction over her child, Marianna Ricci made sure I had a place at her dinner table and a listening ear when I needed it.
The world is a darker place without her in it.
“I’d like that,” Nicky says, his voice weak but grateful.
We stop at a florist on the way to the cemetery. Nicky stands for a long time in front of the display of arrangements, his face carefully neutral but his hands shaking slightly as he considers the options.
“She always loved sunflowers,” I say quietly, pointing to a simple but beautiful arrangement. “Said they reminded her of summers in Italy when she was a child.”
“You remember that?”
“I remember everything about her. She was...” I pause, trying to find words for what Marianna meant to me. “She was the first person who ever made me feel like I mattered. Like I was worth caring about just for being me.”
Nicky’s eyes fill with tears, but he manages a small smile. “She used to say you were the son God sent her, and I was the son God gave her.”
The words hit me like a punch to the chest. “She said that?”
“All the time. Even after...” He trails off, but I know what he means. Even after I went to prison. Even after I became someone she should be ashamed of.
We buy the sunflowers and drive to Lambeth Cemetery in comfortable silence. The December air is sharp and cold, our breath visible in small puffs as we walk through the rows of headstones. Nicky leads the way with the confidence of someone who’s made this journey many times before.
Marianna’s grave is simple but well-maintained, a modest headstone in dark granite with her name and dates, and below that, a single line. ‘Beloved mother, taken too soon.’
Nicky kneels to place the sunflowers at the base of the headstone, his movements careful and reverent. I stand behind him, hands in my pockets, and feel the familiar weight of loss settle over me like a blanket.
“I miss her,” I say quietly.
“Me too.” Nicky’s voice is thick with emotion. “Every day. There are still moments when I want to call her, tell her about something that happened or ask her advice about something.”
“What would you tell her today?”
He considers this seriously. “That you’re doing better. That we’re figuring things out. That you got a job and you’re learning Italian and you’re starting to look like yourself again.” He pauses. “That I’m happy, even when days like today remind me how much we’ve lost.”
I kneel beside him, brushing a few fallen leaves away from the base of the headstone. “She would be proud of you. Of the man you’ve become, the way you’ve taken care of me.”
“Would she? I’ve done things since she died, Liam. Things she wouldn’t approve of.”
The weight in his voice tells me he’s thinking about his work, about the violence that’s become part of his daily life. About the choices he’s made that have led him further into a world his mother hoped he’d avoid.
“She would understand,” I say firmly.
We sit in silence for a while, both lost in our own memories of the woman who shaped us in ways we’re still discovering. The cemetery is quiet except for the distant sound of traffic and the occasional rustle of wind through the bare trees.
“Liam,” Nicky says eventually, his voice hesitant. “Can I ask you something?”
“Of course.”
“Why didn’t you ever write back?”
The question hits me like ice water. “What?”
“Mum wrote to you. Every week for the first two years of your sentence. She never told me what she said in the letters, but she always hoped you’d write back. She kept checking the post, kept asking if maybe your letters were getting lost somehow.”
The guilt crashes over me like a wave. “She wrote to me?” I stutter, and it comes out sounding like a question.
“You didn’t know?”
Jesus Christ. That would be such an easy way out. But I don’t deserve it, and I’m not going to take it.
“I... no. I mean, yes, I got letters. I never opened any. I thought I saw her handwriting on some envelopes. But I couldn’t.
..” I struggle to find words for the shame that had consumed me in those early years.
“I couldn’t bear the thought of her seeing my handwriting on prison stationery.
Couldn’t stand the idea of her knowing where I was, what I’d become. ”
“She already knew where you were, you idiot. She wrote to you there.”
“I know that now. But at the time, opening them, let alone replying, felt like... like admitting it was real. Like accepting that I was a criminal, a killer, someone who belonged in that place.” My voice cracks.
“I thought if I didn’t engage with the outside world, maybe I could pretend it was all a nightmare I’d wake up from. ”
Nicky is quiet for a long moment, processing this. “She thought you hated her. Thought maybe she’d said something wrong, or that you blamed her for not being able to help more during the trial.”
The words are like knives. “God, no. Never. I could never hate her. She was the closest thing to a real mother I ever had.”
“I know that now. But at the time... it broke her heart a little bit. She kept writing anyway, but I could see how much it hurt every time there was no reply.”
I close my eyes, overwhelmed by the weight of another failure, another way I’d hurt someone who loved me through my own cowardice and self-pity.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I’m so fucking sorry, Nicky. I was selfish and scared and I handled everything wrong. I should have opened them and written back. Should have let her know how much even just seeing her handwriting meant to me.”
“She knew,” Nicky says gently. “Deep down, she knew. Mum was good at reading people, at understanding the things they couldn’t say. She knew you were struggling, knew you were in pain. That’s why she kept writing.”
“What did she say? In the letters?”
“I don’t know. She never told me, said it was between you and her. But I know she wrote about family stuff, about what was happening at home. About me, probably, and how much she worried about both of us.”
Nicky’s hand finds mine, our fingers interlacing over the cold ground. “She never stopped believing in you. Even when you stopped believing in yourself.”
“I wish I could tell her I’m sorry and I’m so grateful she cared.”
“Maybe you can.”
I look at him questioningly.
“Talk to her,” he says, nodding toward the headstone. “Tell her what you couldn’t say when she was alive. She’s still listening.”
It feels awkward at first, talking to a piece of granite as if it could hear me.
Even though I more or less encouraged Nicky to do the same thing a few moments ago.
But gradually, the words start to come. I tell Marianna the censored version of prison, about the dark years.
I tell her about coming home to Nicky, about learning to heal, about the job with Dr. Torrino and the future that’s slowly taking shape.
I tell her I’m sorry for not writing back, for letting her worry, for being too proud and scared to accept the love she was offering.
And I tell her I love her, that I miss her every day, that I’m trying to be the kind of person she believed I could be.
When I’m finished, we sit in silence again. The gray afternoon is slowly giving way to evening, and the cemetery is starting to empty as other visitors finish their own conversations with the dead.
“Thank you,” Nicky says quietly, “for remembering her. For loving her. For being here with me today instead of letting me carry this alone.”
“You’ll never have to carry anything alone again,” I tell him, and I mean it completely. “We’re a team now. In grief and joy and everything in between.”
He squeezes my hand, and I can feel some of the tension leaving his shoulders. The sadness is still there. It always will be on days like this, but it’s softer now, shared and therefore more bearable.
“She would love seeing us together,” Nicky says as we finally stand to leave. “Would probably have opinions about our interior decorating choices and whether we’re eating enough vegetables.”
I laugh despite the solemnity of the moment. “She’d definitely have opinions about the vegetables. And she’d insist on cooking for us every Sunday.”
“God, her Sunday dinners. I’d give anything for one more of those.”
“Me too.”
We walk back to the car slowly, reluctant to leave but knowing we’ve said what needed to be said. The drive home is quiet but not uncomfortable, both of us lost in memories of a woman who helped make us who we are.
Back at the apartment, Nicky puts on the kettle while I scroll through Facebook and find a photo of the three of us from years ago, Nicky and me as teenagers, flanking Marianna at some family gathering, all of us grinning at the camera.
I prop my phone up on the kitchen counter where we both can see it.
“She looks happy there,” I observe.
“She was happy. We were both home, both safe, both hers. That was all she ever wanted.”
We drink our tea and remember her together, her terrible jokes, her fierce protectiveness, her ability to make anyone feel welcome at her table. The grief is still there, sharp and familiar, but it’s warmed by love and shared memories and the knowledge that some bonds are stronger than death.
“I’m glad you’re here,” Nicky says as we’re getting ready for bed. “Glad I didn’t have to do today alone.”
“I’m glad I could be here for you. I should have been here two years ago when it happened. Should have been at the funeral, should have helped you through the worst of it.”
“You were in prison. You couldn’t have been here.”
“I was in prison for a reason, Nicky. It’s all my fault. All a result of my bad decisions.”
Nicky inhales sharply, as if my words have physically hurt him. “She wouldn’t want you to say that.”
“I know. But I still wish things had been different.”
“Me too. But we can’t change the past. We can only decide how to move forward.”
It’s a lesson we’ve both learned the hard way, that healing isn’t about erasing the pain or undoing the damage, but about learning to carry it together. About creating new memories and new traditions and new ways of honoring the people we’ve lost.
As we settle on the sofa, I think about Marianna’s letters and the love they represented. About second chances and forgiveness and the way grief can transform into something that connects us rather than divides us.
Tomorrow we will continue building our life together. We’ll work and learn and grow and probably make mistakes along the way. But we’ll do it as partners, as a team, as two people who understand that love isn’t just about the joy, it’s about showing up for each other in the darkness too.
And somewhere in whatever comes after this life, I think Marianna Ricci is smiling.