Page 48 of Broken Trust

“Higher, Daddy! Push me up to the sky!”

“Any higher and you'll end up in orbit, principessa.”

“What's orbit?”

“Space. Up with the moon and the stars and the astronauts.”

Rosa considers this for about half a swing, her curls blowing back from her face and her pink sneakers kicking at the clouds. “Okay,” she decides. “Do it.”

I laugh and give her another push, and she shrieks with joy, the sound bouncing off the old plane trees and making an elderly man by the fountain lower his newspaper to glare at us.

Sunday morning is park day. It's the one rule I've never broken, not when I was driving until four and could barely keep my eyes open, and not when Rosa had chickenpox and sat wrapped in a blanket on a park bench eating gelato with calamine lotion on her nose. Every week, rain or shine, we walk the six blocks from my parents' house to the Giardini, and we throw bread to the ducks and ride the carousel and play on the swings until my arms ache.

She talks from the moment she wakes until the second she falls asleep. She wants to know why the sky is blue and where the ducks sleep and whether Nonno's mustache is real or pretend. She's got my stubbornness, her grandmother's laugh, and a temper that could strip paint off a wall. She looks a little more like the Rizzo twins with every week that passes, and I love her so much it frightens me.

Plenty has changed. In January, after six months of driving nights, Franco Galli finally called me back. It's not a big job, just a children's theatre workshop three afternoons a week in a church hall, teaching eight-year-olds to project their voices and not fall off the stage. It pays less than Uber, and I've never loved working more than I do now.

Pa and I have reached a kind of peace, built mostly around Rosa and the soccer scores. Ma still tells me to wear a scarf.

And I still haven't signed the divorce papers.

They're in the drawer of my old desk at home, under a pile of Rosa's crayon drawings. Conti calls every few weeks to nag me, and I keep putting him off. I tell myself I'm not sure what I'm holding out for. That's a lie. I know, and it's never going to happen, and I still can't make myself pick up the pen.

“Daddy, stop! Stop!”

I catch the chains and bring her to a halt, thinking she's scared, but she's twisting around in the seat with her whole body, pointing with one chubby finger.

“Who's that, Daddy?”

I look up.

Gia is standing at the edge of the playground beside the carousel in a yellow sundress and a straw hat, a paper bag from the bakery on Via Farini clutched against her chest. She's frozen mid-step, like she's been arguing with herself about whether to come closer or run, and her gaze is fixed on Rosa.

It’s been so long since she came into my Uber that night, I had to look twice to realize it was her. I've walked past her restaurant twice, both times late at night when it was closed, and I didn't let myself slow down. I stopped reading the reviews and gave up asking Nella about her. I did everything she wanted, except the one thing that really counted. Signing the papers.

And now here she is, in my park, on my Sunday, gazing at my daughter like she's the most precious thing she's ever seen.

“Daddy?” Rosa tugs at my sleeve. “Who's that lady?”

“That's Gia,” I say, and my voice sounds strange in my own ears. “She's your Zia Gia.”

Rosa squints over at her with great suspicion. “Zia Nella's my zia.”

“She's got a sister. So you've got two aunts.”

“Oh.” She mulls it over. “Does she have candy?”

“I have no idea, principessa. Why don't we go find out?”

I lift her down, and she takes off at a run, sneakers flashing pink and curls flying. I follow more slowly. My heart is pounding so hard I can feel it in my throat.

Rosa skids to a stop right in front of Gia and tips her head all the way back.

“Hi,” she says. “I'm Rosa. That’s my daddy. Do you have candy?”

Gia makes a small sound, part laugh and part sob, and kneels down there on the lawn in her pretty yellow dress so they're eye to eye.

“Hi, sweetheart,” she murmurs. “No candy, I'm afraid. But I've got cornetti with chocolate in the middle. Would that do?”