Epilogue
AIDEN
THREE MONTHS LATER
It’s been like Schrodinger’s cat for thirteen years. Not talking to my grandparents meant never opening the proverbial box to find out whether my dad was the good father and wonderful partner to Mum that I thought he was, or the cheating, two-faced liar from the letters.
I’ve been dodging the question, so he could be either of those.
But now I’m here, in the Aurato living room, waiting for my grandparents to arrive, grasping Linnea’s hand.
A bit too hard, perhaps. I open my hand to let go, but she holds on tightly, squeezing it twice—the reminder that she’s here with me no matter what we find out.
No matter how terrible these people are.
It’s taken me months to work up the courage to come here after the delivery boy’s message from the family.
It’s late November, close to Christmas already, and it felt like the right time for it.
Also, Linnea said she was dying to go to Florence for her birthday, but I guessed she was trying to help me make a decision. Nudging me, the way she promised.
And it worked. We’re here now.
I’ve always loved those cheesy movies where families find each other and make up around this time of year, so maybe I’m feeling extra mellow. I got the love of my life like in the rom-coms—maybe I can get a family too.
Although I don’t know what to expect. Two grey, stiff people with pursed lips and stern, scrutinising eyes are what I’ve imagined. Perhaps they’ll ask me for money. I’m really not clear on what they want.
The two people who enter the room are not what I pictured.
They’re grey-haired as I thought—they’re in their eighties, after all—but their eyes shine with a sort of sincerity, their eyebrows curling upwards.
I detect apprehension, not scrutiny. She’s short and cute, like Mum.
And he—Edoardo Aurato—is tall and surprisingly straight-backed for a man his age.
He looks like an older version of myself. Of my dad. His blue eyes are striking.
My lungs feel too small. But I stand up and shake their hands.
My grandmother tells me to call her ‘Nonna’ and I swallow hard, nodding.
We get through some slightly awkward chit-chat about the flight here and what Linnea and I do for a living. Surely, they’ve researched me, and this is just them being polite.
We speak Italian. I’ll translate for Linnea afterwards.
I glance back at her, hoping she’s okay through this foreign conversation, and she flashes me a reassuring, close-lipped smile and a discreet nod. A reminder to ask what I need to ask.
“There’s something I need to know about my father,” I start, leaning my elbows onto my knees. I tell them about the letters I’ve read, and as I do, my grandparents exchange glances. Nonna nods.
“I will get them for you,” she says, leaving the room swiftly.
“Get what, sorry?” I ask after her, although she can’t hear me.
“The other side of the story, son,” my grandfather says. “The letters from your father. Take them with you, you don’t need to read them here.”
I hear what he doesn’t say. Because it’ll be too hard. They want me to react in peace.
Nonna returns with a bundle of letters. It’s much thicker than the one I found among my dad’s things.
“Thank you,” I say.
We talk a bit more, but they insist I go back to the hotel and read the letters.
“We kept an eye out for you and your mother. Despite appearances, we always cared,” Edoardo says. “While you read the letters, please remember this. If we ever thought you needed our help, we would have intervened.”
I furrow my brow, trying to understand what he’s saying.
“If you still want to see us tomorrow, we will be here,” Nonna says, pressing her wrinkled lips into a small smile.
Mamma, Babbo
Edoardo Aiden started school today. You should see him in his little uniform. We walk together, and I know this will always be my favourite part of the day. He’s such a bright young boy. The questions he asks, you should hear him. He’s already much smarter than I am, and he’s five!
You’d be proud of his deep care for the people around him. We’ve made some friends who have a son his age, and they’re already quite close.
I know I disappointed you, but if you’d see how wonderful my son is, maybe it could become clear to you that I wasn’t a lost cause.
I wish you could meet him.
You can be part of his life, if you want to be. You would be welcome.
…
I can’t read more through the tears forming in my eyes. This is the fourth letter, and the sentiment is the same in each of them. Dad did love me the way he said. I’m all he writes about. He wants them to know me. To learn about our life in London. These letters read exactly like I remember him.
In my mind I finally let the images of him break through. The wide smile I’ve tried to forget. Not allowed myself to remember.
I drag in a shaky breath and swipe at my eyes.
Mamma, Babbo
You hurt me. I thought we were getting somewhere in the last exchange. It’s been years of this back and forth, but I will not yield. I have found a good lawyer finally and he has all the letters. Everything.
I had hoped you would one day come around to the idea that Amara and I are truly in love. But as you are so stubborn, I will marry her with the Aurellan name. I will renounce the Aurato inheritance.
How can you, again and again, try to force Signorina Melinci upon me? I came home hoping for a reunion, and you spring this lady upon me again as if my choices don’t matter to you.
…
Hm. So there was never a reconciliation. Dad thought there would be. He was going to marry Mum.
There’s only one letter left, but the handwriting on this one is different. It’s only when I start reading I understand why.
Gentile Famiglia Aurato,
I am writing to you because, after your son’s passing, your grandson and I are left with nothing because of your inheritance rules.
But I will not beg for it. I’m simply giving you the opportunity to do what your son wanted you to do.
He didn’t tell me everything, he never had to.
I know he struggled through battles with you.
He spent a lot of our hard-earned money on a lawyer.
One thing he told me is that you kept trying to get him to marry Signorina Melinci, and that you sprung her upon him last time he went back home to reconcile with you.
And he said that was the last time he’d visit you in Florence, because you didn’t respect our relationship.
This saddens me. I understand you never respected me.
I accepted this. But I thought you’d respect your son and his choices.
Giorgio chose me. Every day until he died he chose me and Aiden, and you missed out on ten years of his life and eight of Aiden’s because of your stubbornness.
This is your last chance to take part in your grandson’s life. Accept him as your heir now, as your son wanted.
…
Jesus Christ. They received my mum’s pleas and they didn’t listen. That’s why my grandmother said ‘if you still want to see us’. But what was Edoardo talking about, that they’d kept an eye out? I can’t piece it together.
“What are you going to do?” Linnea asks after I give my translation of the last letter for her.
I shake my head. “Fuck. I don’t know.”
“You should hear them out. You’re here now.”
“I’m confused. Are they some kind of psychopaths? How could they just leave us like that?”
“Let’s find out, shall we? At least you’ll know, and you can make an informed decision. If you decide to walk away, I’ll understand, but at least do it with all the information.” Linnea looks at me. “They’re quite old. You might not get another chance to talk this through.”
“Hm.” I lean back on the sofa at the hotel, the view of Florence stretching out in front of us through the floor-to-ceiling windows.
We’re back in the Aurato living room. This time my grandparents are already on the couch, but they both rise on shaky legs when we enter.
I do my utmost to remain polite, but I want to blurt out all my questions. Their housekeeper brings us all coffee, offering a distraction, and saves me from being rude.
“Tell me, please,” I say, but where the hell do I even start? I clear my throat. There’s one thing the letters weren’t clear on that I still need to iron out. “When my father came here, did he have a relationship, an affair, with someone else? With Signorina Melinci?”
Edoardo mutters under his breath, and Nonna pats his knee.
“The Melinci family, they were trying to find a way to join our families for decades. Giorgio was already in his twenties and didn’t seem capable of finding a wife for himself, so we finally conceded.
” Nonna pauses, slowly leans forward and picks up her small cup of espresso.
She sips it and puts it back, equally slowly.
I wait, holding my breath so I don’t burst with impatience. Tell me!
“We announced the engagement,” she continues, “sent invites to the wedding, and, well… He didn’t go through with it, as you know.”
Nonna shakes her head and pinches her eyes shut for a moment before blinking them open again.
“The Melincis were humiliated, and they held it over our heads for years. And when they later found out Giorgio was still unmarried, they kept pushing their spinster daughter on him when he visited. It was our fault she was still unmarried, they said. But I never saw him take an interest in her—in anyone—while he was here. Your mother had changed that in him.”
I drop my head into my hands and breathe to calm my racing heart.
Okay. Dad didn’t cheat on Mum. That’s what I’m hearing.
Dragging my hands down my face, I meet Nonna’s eyes again. Her wrinkled forehead has a crevice between her eyebrows. “My apologies,” I say. “I just, I’ve never been certain. It’s been hard to understand what he did when I’ve only had one fragment of the story.”