Chapter 5: The Price of a Roof

Valentina Pov

Franco Esposito opened the door before I could even knock.

He looked at me like I was something he was thinking about buying. He looked me up and down to see if I was worth the price. I was twenty-two years old and six weeks pregnant. Everything I owned was in one bag. I stood up as straight as I could.

"You're the girl Giulia sent," he said. He didn't ask; he just knew.

"Valentina," I told him.

He stepped back. "You’ll work for your stay here. That’s the deal." I looked at him evenly. "What kind of work?" He waved his hand like the question was too small to answer. "Everything," he said. "Whatever needs doing." I nodded. I had already decided I would ask no more questions that night

"I understand," I said. I walked past him into the house.

A woman named Marta was waiting in the hallway. She was small and thin, with eyes that noticed everything. She looked at my bag, my stomach, and my face. She looked like she had finished a math problem in her head and got the answer she wanted.

"Can you cook?" she asked.

"Yes."

"Clean?"

"Yes."

"Your room is small," she said. She told me when I could use the bathroom and then led me to the kitchen. "Come. I’ll show you where things are."

I followed her. I could feel Franco still standing at the door, watching me.

My room was tiny, like a box. It had a bed, a chair, and a dresser with a broken handle. The window looked out at a patch of dirt and a wall. I sat on the bed and touched the mattress.

This is only for now, I told myself. This is just a step to get where I’m going.

I had to believe that.

The work started at six the next morning. It never stopped.

Marta woke me up by knocking hard on my door. When I got downstairs, she had a long list of chores. I had to mop the floors, clean the bathroom, and do the laundry. I even had to clean the front windows that were very dirty. Marta looked at me like the dirty windows were all my fault.

I did everything without complaining. I scrubbed the floors on my hands and knees. I cleaned the bathroom until it was shiny. I folded Franco’s shirts exactly the way Marta showed me. If I made one mistake, she would snatch the shirt away, fix it, and watch me do the next one.

In the afternoons, I cooked. Marta sat at the table and told me what to make. One time, my bread was too hard. Franco didn't say anything; he just pushed it away. Marta said they would toast it instead. It was a quiet way of telling me I had failed.

The Espositos never yelled. They didn't have to.

By the second month, I understood how things worked. Marta kept a secret notebook. She would watch me use soap or sauce and say, "It all adds up." She meant that I owed them money for everything I used, but she never told me the total. She wanted me to feel like I would never finish paying them back.

Franco was different. He checked my work to find mistakes. He would rub his finger on a shelf to look for dust. Once, I scrubbed the porch steps in the freezing rain while my back hurt from being pregnant. He looked at my work and said, "You missed a spot on the left." 

I looked up at him. The rain was running down my face. "Where?" I asked. He pointed without being specific. "There." He went inside. I pressed my hand flat against the stone and found nothing, no dirt, nothing. I cleaned it anyway.

I stood against the wall and breathed. I wanted to cry, but I wouldn't let myself. Crying was a waste of time. I gave myself thirty seconds to be sad, then I went back to work.

The third month was even harder. My stomach was bigger, and my back ached all day. I still mopped and did the laundry. I scrubbed floors on my knees even though it was hard to move.

"You’re slower," Marta said one day.

"I’m pregnant," I reminded her.

"The floors still need to be swept," she replied.

As I swept, I looked at the back of her head. I started making my own list. I counted every floor I mopped and every shirt I folded. I knew where they kept their cash box in a kitchen drawer. I knew where the key was hidden.

I was very good at math.

My baby, Matteo, was born in a small clinic on a Wednesday in February.

When he cried for the first time, the whole world felt different. I had been surviving by making lists and working hard, but his voice changed everything. He was the reason I was doing all of this. A nurse put him in my arms and said, "He's healthy. Strong." I said, "Yes." I already knew. I had felt how determined he was the whole time, pushing against me all those months, impatient to arrive. I held him and thought: You are the one I am building a life for.

I rested for three weeks. Marta left food at my door but didn't come in. While I healed, I made a plan. I calculated exactly how much money I had earned from months of hard work. The total was four thousand and forty euros.

I thought about Marta’s notebook and Franco’s mean comments. Yes, I thought. It all adds up.

One Thursday at four in the morning, while the house was dark and quiet, I went to the kitchen. I took the key and opened the cash box. I took exactly four thousand euros, not a penny more than what I had earned. I put the key back and closed the drawer quietly.

I packed my bag and tied Matteo to my chest in a wrap. He stayed quiet, like he knew we had to be sneaky.

I walked out of the house before the sun came up.

I sat at the bus stop and watched the ocean. I was twenty-three years old. I had my son, my money, and a big dream for the future.

The bus arrived. I picked up my bag and got on. I didn't look back at the village. There was nothing there that I wanted to take with me.