EPILOGUE
MARCO
Six months later, New York City
Mama says the lights will be bright, but I didn’t think they’ll be this bright.
They’re a thousand tiny suns, bouncing off the shiny floor and the shiny clothes.
Papa says the whole place sparkles like the inside of a snow globe.
He’s right. The music thumps in my chest like a small drum, and he leans close so I can hear him through it.
I sit in the front row between Papa and Nonna. My legs still swing because the chair’s too big. Papa wears his black suit. He looks like the men on TV who never smile, except he smiles now, just for me. He keeps one big hand on my shoulder. It’s a secret signal that means I’ve got you.
Nonna has a scarf with gold thread. She tucks it tighter and whispers, “Watch the shoes,” like we came here for shoe school. I nod like a serious person who understands shoe school.
The runway’s a long mirror. A lady with a headset kneels in front of me and says, “Are you our little VIP?”
Papa answers, “Family.” The lady smiles and gives me a small card that says GUEST in silver letters. It feels important in my pocket.
People in tall chairs talk into little black sticks.
Then the music changes, and everything falls quiet, like everyone just took a sip at the same time and didn’t swallow.
Mama comes out. The room makes the sound the hot oven makes when you open it—a big whoosh.
She glides like a fairy, her dress swishing like liquid stars.
Her eyes find me in the middle of all the flash and color, and she smiles.
Then she looks even better, like the lights were waiting for her.
I lean toward Papa. “That’s my mama.”
“I know, stellino,” he says, mouth twitching. “She’s the most beautiful thing here.”
Dresses change like magic. One’s silver with little pieces that look like frost. One’s green and moves like leaves when the wind plays.
One’s so red even the runway turns red for a second.
Mama disappears and returns, disappears and returns, each time the same and new.
Cameras click in big bunches, a sound like sleet on windows.
People clap in small waves, then big ones.
A man behind us says, “She holds the room,” and I sit up straighter because holding rooms is a strong job.
I like her best in the bakery with flour on her nose, saying, “Taste this,” like it’s a secret. Still, I sit up straight whenever someone looks our way. You have to look like you belong when your mama is the star. That’s a rule I made for tonight.
At the end, all the models walk out together, a whole rainbow of dresses, but Mama stays right in the middle.
The lights get so bright the runway shines like a path made of stars.
Papa stands and pulls me up with him so I can see better.
The clapping grows and grows until it sounds like hundreds of horses trotting straight toward us.
Mama blows us a kiss, and I catch it with both hands and press it to my chest so it can’t fly away.
Papa bends so only I can hear. “Ready to go home after this?”
“Yeah,” I whisper. “We can make cookies. I’ll wear the crown again.”
His eyes go soft, the way they do when he thinks no one’s watching. “You can wear it every day, if you want.”
I look at Mama shining under the lights and at Papa’s hand around mine, strong and warm, and I know something true.
Glitter is good. Cameras are loud. But the best things are back home—the smells of bread and sugar, the taste of something still warm, the soft rug under my socks, the sound of the oven ticking before it dings.
The air there feels safe, sweet, and alive, and the light doesn’t have to try so hard.
That’s where the best stories bake themselves into memory.
That’s when I decide the bakery is still the best stage in the world.