I stared at the broken pieces on the floor, then slowly straightened my back.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered.
Not for the cup. Not for the mistake.
For the version of me that once believed I could be accepted here.
That version died with Gabriel.
They didn’t stay long after that.
Vincenzo’s parents stood up, their expressions tight with disdain. His mother adjusted her gloves with slow precision, like she was wiping off something unpleasant.
“I’ll make sure Vincenzo knows how far you’ve fallen,” she said coldly. “Maybe this time he’ll finally see it. You never belonged here. You never were worth his time.”
The door closed behind them. Tires rolled away down the driveway. And just like that, the house sank back into silence.
The same silence that had always lived here.
I turned to one of the maids. “You can stop preparing lunch. They’ve left.”
She nodded quickly.
I went upstairs slowly, each step heavier than the last, like my body didn’t belong to me anymore.
Halfway up, I heard voices drifting from the kitchen—low, careless, unfiltered.
“She didn’t even cry when they left.”
“Have you seen the urn in her room? That boy… Gabriel… he’s really gone.”
“Mr. Vincenzo only talks about Noel now. He even brings flowers for Lena. No visits, no prayers… nothing for the other child.”
“And even if he did, what would it change? That boy was always too soft… too fragile.”
“She used to be the lady of this house. Now she’s just… surviving.”
I didn’t stop walking.
I didn’t react.
I didn’t defend myself.
Maybe they were right.
I reached my room and shut the door behind me.
My phone rang.
Vincenzo.
Once. Twice.
I just stared at the screen until it stopped ringing on its own. No message followed. No explanation. Nothing.
The silence came back stronger than before.
Heavier. Familiar. Permanent.
**
I changed my clothes without a sound.
I picked the soft blue dress Gabriel loved—the one stitched with tiny white clouds. He used to hold it in his small hands and smile like it meant something magical.
“Mama, you look like a storybook mom,” he once told me. “The kind that keeps kids safe. The kind that doesn’t disappear.”
I picked up his urn and held it close, pressing it to my chest like I could still feel him there.
Then I left.
I drove to the only place he ever truly wanted to go—Ocean Park.
Every year, he used to ask.
“Just once, Mama… I want to see the dolphins. I’ll be good, I promise.”
And every year, Vincenzo said no.