The Italian Who Abandoned Me

Prologue

Five months earlier

Ah, how wonderful it is to be loved. That’s how I felt.

My boyfriend was the most romantic man I’d ever known—always giving me gifts, declaring his love for me, treating me with respect and affection.

After two years of dating, he proposed, and of course I said yes.

My family loved him. My friends—the ones I had at the time—adored his company.

Everything was perfect. Or so I believed.

Everything was going well. We were happy, preparing the wedding, choosing the date—everything was perfect.

One day, he took me to a party at a friend’s house.

I didn’t know anyone there. The place was full of cigarettes, alcohol, and couples having sex everywhere we looked.

When I saw all that, I asked him to take me home.

I wasn’t used to that kind of place. And then he yelled at me—for the first time.

“You’re my fiancée, and you’ll go wherever I go,” he said, pointing his finger in my face. I was startled by this side of him—a side I’d never seen before—and decided to just go along with it.

Eventually, we ended up in a room where he sat on a sofa and pulled me onto his lap.

There, surrounded by his friends, he started drinking and smoking.

He offered me some, and I refused—I didn’t like it, had never even tried alcohol.

He said I had to learn to be like him since we were getting married, so he forced me to drink.

He pried my mouth open and tipped the bottle in.

I choked, and everyone started laughing at me, which scared me even more.

At some point, he got up, grabbed my hand, and started dragging me up a staircase.

I was terrified. I’d never experienced anything like this.

We stopped in front of a door. He opened it, and I realized it was a bedroom.

We went in, and he pushed me onto the bed, then lay on top of me and started kissing me.

I kissed him back. I thought he would stop there, but I was wrong.

He wrapped one hand around my neck and started squeezing while his other hand went to my breast and pinched my nipple.

This aggressiveness was new to me. The hand on my neck slid down and went inside my skirt.

He pushed my panties aside and touched me, then thrust two fingers inside me.

It hurt, and I asked him to stop, but he didn’t listen.

It wasn’t like before, when we made love gently and tenderly.

He’d never been this aggressive, never forced himself on me.

I realized then that I would be manipulated by him, that I already saw him as controlling—and that wasn’t good.

I felt helpless, and I knew that if I didn’t change things, it would only get worse.

And that’s exactly what happened in the months that followed.

He got worse every day. I felt more and more powerless, and that only made him feel more victorious with every word and action.

I was living in a toxic relationship, and I knew I would suffer even more if I didn’t take action—as quickly as possible.

I wake up startled, drenched in sweat. I glance at the nightstand and see on my alarm clock that there’s still a little time before it goes off.

I decide to get out of bed early and get ready for work.

That nightmare has me on edge. I rush to the bathroom, turn on the shower, and adjust the water—it’s a cold day.

I take my shower calmly, trying to get that dream out of my head. How can it still torment me so much?

I dry off and go to my closet, where I grab a two-piece suit and boots.

Time to start the day. I head downstairs, have breakfast with my mother Isaura and my sister Gabriela, then leave for work.

I get in the car, start it up, and head out to face New York traffic.

The whole drive, I keep thinking about the dream.

Will I ever forget? Will all of this ever pass?

What we want is someone who gives us affection and attention, a person who comes into our lives and stays, who brings comfort—a love as calm as autumn, a leaf floating free, light and loose, pleasant as the breeze and pure as a bare tree, unashamed.