“Yeah, Mum. Why even bother pretending to care? You make food like you’re punishing us. Like you’re waiting for the second we leave to be alone with your failures.”
Chiara’s grin was sharp, cutting. “It’s sad, really. Every burnt edge, every dry bite—it’s a protest. But we see right through it.”
Vivienne picked up a bag with exaggerated care, tearing it open. “Eat, family. This is food for those who matter. We leave in an hour.”
Their eyes flicked over me as if I were an unspoken secret they shared with amusement.
They dug in ravenously, piling plates high, calling for drinks, for snacks, stacking their wants and needs, oblivious to my presence.
“Get me water.”
“Pass the salt.”
“More napkins.”
Invisible, I retreated to the background, swallowing bitterness that threatened to choke me.
Before they left, Marcello’s voice cut through the room like a whip.
“Where’s my wallet?”
He spun, eyes sharp, accusatory. “You’re hiding it. I can tell. That’s what you do—hide. From duty, from respect, from life itself. Useless, jealous little nobody.”
I shook my head, silent.
He didn’t wait. His hand struck my face. Hard. Pain and humiliation collided as blood filled my mouth.
I collapsed, the floor cold beneath me, steady, unyielding. My vision blurred, and Vivienne gasped, syrupy sweet, feigning innocence:
“Oh! Sorry, brother-in-law. Must have grabbed your wallet by mistake while digging through my earrings. You know how clumsy I am.”
She revealed it with a smirk that only I noticed, a trap designed to diminish me in front of everyone.
The family packed their bags with laughter, joy, and false cheer.
“Don’t worry, Mum. I’ll bring a fridge magnet,” Antonio said, feigning generosity.
“And a keychain,” Chiara added.
“Dirty laundry, Grandma!” the twins yelled, tongues sticking out.
Their words cut, soft but piercing.
The door slammed. Silence fell.
I didn’t linger. I didn’t cry. I went straight to my room, knees aching, and pulled the old suitcase from beneath the bed. Zipped it. Left the rest behind.
A cab carried me straight to the airport.
Then my phone buzzed. Marcello.
Guard the house while we’re gone. A week. Don’t break anything.
Another message arrived immediately.
Sorry I slapped you. But you provoked me. Always jealous, always ruining things.
I stared. His hands silenced me, now his words tried to rewrite history. Still my fault.
I smiled—not joyfully, but clearly.
Blocked. Deleted. Gone.