It’s Friday and there’s a knock on the door. It’s light and polite. That’s what makes it unsettling. I’m barefoot, still in leggings, hair pulled into a messy knot because I finally have a day off and I intend to enjoy it. Emma is at school. The house is quiet in that rare, precious way. I open the door without thinking.
Mariela stands on the other side. For half a second, my brain refuses to catch up. She looks… put together. Calm. Nervous in a way that feels rehearsed. Like she’s practiced this moment in the mirror and still doesn’t like how it goes.
“Hi,” she says. “Is Matteo here?”
There it is.
“No,” I reply evenly. “He’s at the bookstore.”
Her eyes flick past me, just briefly, like she’s taking in the house. The space. The life.
“Oh,” she says. “Okay.”
Silence stretches. I don’t invite her in.
“Can I ask why you’re here?” I say, keeping my tone neutral. Pleasant. Civil.
She shifts her weight. Hesitates.
“I think,” she says carefully, “that Matteo should probably tell you. Not me.”
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