Page 165 of Lorenzo

“Donatella.”

“Don’t,” I say, and my warning is a little too sharp. “I’m over it.”

“You are not.”

“I’ve made my peace with it.”

“Lying to yourself is a waste of energy.” He sets down his fork. “And you, of all people, should know that.”

I look up at him. “And what exactly do you expect me to do with it now?”

“Be angry.”

A short laugh escapes me. “What good would that do?”

“It would get it out.”

My fingers tighten around the fork.

“I'm not interested in going back there.”

“I'm not telling you to fixate on it,” he says. “But I think you swallowing it and calling it peace hasn’t helped.”

“And what would help?” I ask. “Screaming at people I haven’t spoken to in years?”

“No. But maybe screaming in general would. Getting it out. Cursing them, even if they’re not here to hear it.”

I shake my head.

“They made you believe your pain was a problem, and you have been carrying that lie ever since.” His voice softens, but the anger remains in his eyes.

I look down at my plate.

For years, I have called it discipline. Survival. Maturity.

Anything but pain.

Then I shake my head. “I was a lot to deal with.”

“Yes, you were,” he says angrily. “You were ten, and your mother died. Of course you were difficult. You were supposed to be difficult. You were angry and frightened and impossible, and you had every right to be. The adults around you were supposed to understand that.”

My throat tightens.

“They lost her too.”

“She was your mother. It wasn’t the same.”

I look away because I cannot argue with that.

I lost the person who tucked me into bed every night. Who knew when I was lying and when I was scared. Who made me feel as though there would always be one place in the world where I belonged.

“They were adults,” Lorenzo says. “And you were a child.”

Something in me gives way at the words.

I blink hard and reach for my coffee, but my hand is unsteady enough that I leave the mug where it is.

“What changed?” he asks.