Rita's Point Of View
The clock on the kitchen wall ticked with a mocking, rhythmic thud that seemed to vibrate through my very bones. I paced the length of Seraphina's kitchen, my fingers twisting the hem of my apron until the fabric groaned in protest. Months had passed since she left Italy, and while my heart sang to be under the same roof as my girl again, a dark, cold shadow was blooming in the corners of my mind, spreading like ink through water, impossible to contain.
I had crossed an ocean to be with her, left behind the sun-drenched hills of Tuscany, the neighbors who had known me since childhood, all for this moment. Yet now that I was here, I felt more helpless than ever.
"I'm fine, Mom," she'd said this morning, her voice thin, like worn-out silk ready to tear at the slightest pull. The words had come too quickly, too rehearsed, as if she'd been practicing them in front of the mirror.
