Page 5 of Sins of the Father
Six months later...
Mia hatedeverything about her new life. The cold, unfamiliar walls of St. Mary’s were nothing like home. The stone floors echoed with the clipped footsteps of nuns and the occasional wail of a homesick child. At seven years old, Mia felt like a shadow—meant to stay quiet and unnoticed. Every second of her day was tightly controlled: meals, chores, lessons, and even prayer.
Her favorite toys were gone. So was her soft blanket—Donata’s blanket. In its place: a thin cot, scratchy wool sheets, and a plain wooden rosary. She no longer asked for things. No one cared what she wanted. Missteps earned punishment: a cuff on the ear, a snapped ruler across the knuckles. Some of the sisters were kind, but even they seemed burdened by the dozens of little souls in their care.
Before being dropped at St. Mary’s, her father had spoken just once.
“You’ll be safe here. That’s all that matters.”
She had tried to ask why she couldn’t stay with her aunt, why she couldn’t go home—but he didn’t answer. His eyes were hard. Distant. His cufflink—a tiny, silver snake eating its own tail—caught on her sleeve as he pulled away. She clutched at it instinctively, but he pried her fingers open with clinical precision. The metal left crescent moons in her palm. He kissed her forehead and walked away.
She waited for someone, anyone, to come back for her. But no one did. That’s when it hit her. She was truly alone.
At first, she tried to be perfect. She thought that if she prayed hard enough, obeyed every rule, her father would return. She knelt through every Mass with clasped hands and dry eyes, mouthing prayers she no longer believed. But God stayed silent. So did her father.
His visits became less frequent, first every few months, then once a year. Each time, he seemed colder. Distracted. She stopped asking when he’d be back. Eventually, he stopped coming altogether.
The years passed in a slow, gray blur. Her cousins and aunt became ghosts. The night Donata died was locked inside her—untouchable. She never spoke of it. Not to the nuns, not in confession. Even during prayer, her mind wandered, blank and unreachable. She was a quiet ghost in the halls, withdrawn andobedient. The sisters called her a model student, but behind the praise was pity. Everyone knew something had broken inside her. They just didn’t ask what.
Mia kept a calendar tucked under her mattress. Every night before bed, she’d cross off a day, counting—not toward anything, just away from the past. Five years of marks covered those pages before something changed.
Then Bianca arrived.
She came at twelve, the same age as Mia. Though they shared Italian roots, they were nothing alike. Mia was cautious and quiet. Bianca was loud, opinionated, and impossible to ignore. With short blonde hair, fierce hazel eyes, and a defiant mouth, she looked like a wild creature dropped into the middle of the convent. Her socialite parents sent her to St. Mary’s to “straighten her out,” dragging her back home on holidays for show.
At first, Mia avoided her. But Bianca didn’t let her.
One evening, Bianca burst into the chapel in the middle of Mia’s silent penance.
“Christ, it reeks of guilt in here,” she announced, plopping onto the pew beside her. The scent of stolen cigarettes cut through the incense.
Mia kept her eyes lowered. The nun’s ruler had left a fresh weal across her knuckles that morning.
Silence.
“Couldn’t sleep?” she pressed again.
More silence.
“I get it,” she said. “This place is a prison wrapped in a rosary.” Bianca shifted, tone softer. “You don’t belong here.”
Mia finally looked at her. “Neither do you.”
Bianca snorted. “You’re really just going to kneel here all day?” She flicked a piece of lint at the crucifix. “He’s not listening.”
When Mia finally looked up, Bianca was grinning like she’d already won. A smudge of lipstick bled outside her mouth. Rebellious. Alive.
Mia sniffed. “Sacrilege.”
Bianca’s laughter echoed through the vaulted ceiling like a struck bell.
That was the beginning. Their bond grew in stolen moments—contraband candy, whispered jokes, hiding from Sister Agnes. Bianca teased Mia into smiling again. She never pressed when Mia shut down, but never disappeared either. One night, sitting beneath the stars behind the chapel, Mia finally whispered the truth:
“I saw her die.”
Bianca didn’t flinch. She took Mia’s hand and said nothing, but she stayed.
After that, they were inseparable. Together they grew, surviving scrapes, punishments, and years of numbing routine. Bianca lit up the cracks in Mia’s shell, and Mia, in turn, gave Bianca something to protect. They marked time in stolen chapel snacks, shared secrets behind laundry lines, and penciled their dreams into the margins of old textbooks. Mia kept a battered journal under her mattress. On the inside cover, in Bianca’s looping scrawl, was written:We’ll leave here one day. You’ll see.
