Page 153 of Grumpy Boss of the Year

“I don’t know that I hate you,” I say finally. “Maybe I’m just hurt. Hurt at you. Hurt at dad.”Hurt at Liam,the voice whispers in my head, and I want to cry. I am not going to think about him right now. He should be the last thing on my mind, yet somehow his deception has affected me the most. Made me wantto die. Made me want to pull out my own heart. My mother starts humming, and I watch as she stands up and dances around the garden. She’s more petite than I imagined she would be as she spins and laughs.

“Ti ho amato da bambino e ti amo ancora di più ora. Non capirai mai cosa significhi rinunciare a chi ha il tuo cuore,”she sings in her girlish voice. I have no idea what she is saying, but the sound soothes me.

“Dance with me, Little Betta.” She grabs my hand and pulls me up. I stand there awkwardly as she continues to move and dance. “Vorrei stare bene. Vorrei poter essere nella tua vita. Vorrei che tu potessi sentire quanto ti amo.”

Her voice cracks slightly, and I watch as she starts skipping, almost as if she were a little girl. She turns to look at me, and her face is alight with joy and happiness. “Dance, little Betta,” she says again, and because I love her and want to make her happy, I dance. Slowly at first. I feel awkward and stupid, and I can see the nurse watching us from her table, but as my mother continues singing, I allow myself to sway to the beat. Tears fill my heart because as much as I love finally having met her, I can tell she is unwell. I can tell that in some ways she isn’t any more mature than me. And it makes me feel weak and scared because I don’t understand it.

“I am tired. I must sit,” she says by way of explanation as she suddenly stops dancing about five minutes later. “Would you like some tea?”

“No, no thank you.” I take my own seat and sit back. I’d come prepared to interrogate her. To demand answers to the hurt in my heart. To express my pain and the rejection I felt, but I know that none of it will resonate with my mother.

“Did you hear about the election?” she asks, and I shake my head. I’m not sure which election she’s talking about. “Your father says I shouldn’t talk about it, but I think it was planned.”

“What was planned?” I play with my fingers, surprised that my mother was into something like politics.

“The reptilians came and...”

“Now, now...” The nurse rushes over to her. “You mustn’t upset yourself, Violeta.”

“But I just want her to know what we are up against.” She leans towards me. “They are after me, you know.”

“Who is after you?” I swallow hard and look around. Is it true that I’d been right all along? Is my father in the mafia?

“The ones that control everything. They are spying on me.” She grabs her butter knife and pushes it into the air in a stabbing motion. “They will never get me, though.”

“Umm, what?” I frown. I have no idea what she’s talking about. I look around again to see if I can see anyone watching us.

“Your father is one of them,” she whispers, and I feel cold. What is she trying to tell me? I watch as she grabs her tea and sips it, closing her eyes and gripping the cup so tightly that I feel like the fine china might break.

“Is it safe for her here?” I whisper to the nurse, feeling worried. The nurse gives me a sympathetic look and nods. I can tell from her expression that this interaction with my mother is a common occurrence.

“It’s the illness,” the nurse says, a comforting smile on her face. “You are safe.” She walks back to the other table again and takes a seat.

“Are you married?” my mother suddenly asks, her eyes bright again. “You’re so very pretty in that dress. I suppose all the men must want to ask you out. Your father must be chasing them away with baseball bats.”

“He’s not, and I’m not married.” My heart sinks at the thought of marriage. “There was a man I thought I loved, though.”

“Thought?” My mother tilts her head to the side and frowns. “He hurt you?”

“Yes.”

“Do I need to take care of him?” She looks at me with a protective glance, and my heart flips. “No one hurts my beautiful daughter.”

“No, it’s fine.” I laugh to lighten the mood. “How do you like being here?”

“Some days are great, like today, and other days, I feel like I’m in prison.” She sips her tea again. “This is cold.”

“Would you like some?—”

“It’s fine,” she says, shaking her hands. “I’m glad you are here with me.”

“I’m glad I’m here with you, as well.” I lick my lips nervously. “I can visit again, if you’d like.”

“I’d very much like that.” She nods, and without warning, she bursts into tears. I sit there, unsure what to do, but I find it in me to stand up and walk over to her and hold her close. She grabs ahold of my arms and sobs, deep, painful sobs that fill me with pain. Her body is frail next to mine, and as I lean back and look into her wild eyes, I can see that she’s not quite with me. She’s here, but she’s not.

“I love you very much, child,” she says finally. “All of my heart and all of my blessings have been put into you. You are the greatest gift that God has ever given me.” She laughs slightly. “Don’t tell your father I said that.”

“I won’t.” I feel tears coming to my ears and take a deep breath.

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