Page 3 of Say It Isn't So

“We came for Perla’s high school graduation party last week, so why wouldn’t we be here for yours?” Patrizia noted.

I smiled as wide as could be, leaning my head on hers and squeezing them even closer against me. “Good point. Now, you go get us some drinks and I’ll find you in a few. I have to keep making rounds.”

Or else I’d hear about it from my parents.

So I left them and went to greet a few other guests, but before I could actually make it anywhere, I was stopped. Again. This time by Daddy.

And he didn’t look happy.

“Bianca,” he practically bellowed as I spun around. “What are you wearing?” he asked, but not before shaking his head. “I’m sorry, I meant what are you not wearing?”

I looked down at my dress, deciding it was easier to act stupid. “You don’t like it?”

“I’d like it if it had more material. You can’t walk around like this.”

Angling my head to the side, I tried another tactic—playing along. “Why not?” I asked. “It’s our house.”

“People are here,” he said, dropping his voice and bringing a hand to his brows, rubbing them intensely before turning to find my mother. When he’d spotted her, he called, “Regina, come here.”

Joining us, my mother—ever a vision in a classic black strapless silk dress with three strands of pearls of varying lengths hanging from her neck—smiled and kissed me on the cheek. Yeah, she wasn’t taking issue with my dress at all—thankfully. Dad could learn to take a page out of her book. He was going to give himself a heart attack one of these days. “My love, how do you like your party?”

“No, Regina,” my father said, “look at her dress.” Meanwhile, he couldn’t even bring himself to look at it again. He kept diverting his attention any and everywhere but at what I was wearing.

With a smile on her face, she winked at me. “It’s lovely.”

Thank you, Mom.Were all dads this annoyingly overprotective or was it just mine?

“There are boys here. That floppy-haired boy she calls a boyfriend is here.”

“Oh, please.” My mother waved him off with her hand and shook her head. “This style is all the rage these days. Leave her alone. She looks pretty.”

Muttering something in Italian—like he usually did when he was upset—Dad walked away, throwing his hands in the air as if giving up on the whole lot of us.

With it being just the two of us, Mom laid her hands on my upper arms and pulled me close before dropping her forehead to mine. We were so close I could smell her perfume. “I’m so proud of you, my love.”

My heart practically soared right out of my chest. Mom being proud of me meant the world to me. “Really?” I asked as if I actually believed she’d ever lie.

She nodded against me. “Absolutely! I can’t wait for you to start full time with me. Soon I’ll have all my girls right where they belong.” Slipping her arms around my back, she pulled me close for a hug and I savored every second of it, wrapping my hands around her, too.

I’d never tire of feeling her so close.

* * *

Knox

“Real good, boy, make your mother cry more,” my father said, his voice falling flat. That didn’t come as much of a surprise considering his words made it seem like he cared when his actions told an entirely different story. He was sitting—lounging, actually—in his old, battered recliner in the living room in front of the “boob tube” (my grandmother’s words, not mine).

To paint you a picture, we’d just finished eating dinner, my dad promptly pushed his plate aside, rubbed his belly, and meandered into the living room where he put on some soccer game, as he did every night. The fact that it was the night of my college graduation and the last meal we’d share together before I left for New York had no bearing on this family’s routine.

That was why my mom was currently washing dishes, as she did after every meal—with no help from my dad, might I add. Oh, and me? I was drying dishes because, as was our luck, the dishwasher had broken the day before and my parents were waiting for their next paychecks to replace it.

I knew I was only being reprimanded for making my mom cry because it was disrupting my dad’s television-watching. Which was also why he’d raised the volume until it was practically deafening.

I laid a hand on my mom’s arm, trying to console her. I hated seeing her cry. I hated seeing any woman I cared about cry, especially when it was because of me. Watching her tears fall felt like someone was sticking a branding iron down my throat. “It’s okay. You knew this day was coming, and this will be good for me, for us.”Couldn’t she see that?

I knew she was sad that I was leaving—her only child was “abandoning her”—but I wished she could see it for what it was: an opportunity to better myself and this family. If I could get out of this small town in Minnesota, then maybe I could make something of myself. A bachelor’s degree in business no longer held the same weight it once did. The job market was competitive and my grades weren’t the best, so I knew I’d be starting at the bottom no matter where I went or what I did. Besides, our family didn’t have any connections, so I needed to figure things out on my own, and staying here wasn’t the answer. It was too small a town with limited resources.

So when my girlfriend, Rina, suggested leaving on graduation night to start new lives in New York, I jumped at the idea.

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