TaraThe vibration of the phone against my palm is almost a relief. I have been staring at the ceiling of our Chicago bedroom for an hour, my mind back there, in Italy, with them. The atmosphere when they left here... It was palpable. Heavy as damp lead. Mom, a perfectly glued porcelain smile on her face, too calm, too smooth. Dad, somber, his eyes riveted on her as if searching for a crack in a diamond wall.Something cracked. Something fundamental.I slip out of bed, glancing at Mike who is sleeping soundly, exhausted by the last few days of negotiations and celebrations. I tiptoe to the panoramic living room of our penthouse. The city of Chicago twinkles silently below, indifferent to family dramas.I dial her number. Not Mom's. His. It is always to him I go, instinctively. Even married, even thousands of miles away. With my mother, it's a complex balance of admiration and slight restraint. With him, it's simple. He was my rock.He answers on the second ring, which, at this hour in
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