Page 170 of The Mafia's Christmas Baby

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But I say a thank you to the ceiling for the boring we earned.

For the quiet that is not silence.

For the tiny boss who threw a revolution in our kitchen and crowned us with laundry.

Tomorrow, I go back to St. Adrian’s and put on scrubs that smell like bleach and hope.

Nico will argue with a forklift in a language only they speak.

Rosa will give us a pastry “by accident”.

Rafe will send a text that saysall quietlike a weather report.

Tino will change the door chime to a song I don't recognize.

My mother will bring soup and pretend she can't stay.

Lucia will frown at a banana like it wronged her.

It's not dramatic.

It's not a parade.

It's the life we chose when we could have chosen to run.

It fits.

Before sleep takes me, I look at him and he looks at me and we don’t have to say it.

We did it.

We made dangerous men and loud rooms and old rules step aside for a kitchen with a window and a piece of sky.

We will have to keep making them step aside.

We will.

We know how.

Lucia sighs and gives the smallest smile in the dark, the kind that might be gas and might be a secret.

I decide It's a secret.

I keep it.

29

EPILOGUE

LUCIA

Four Christmases later

I am four and it is Christmas and the tree is crooked on porpoise.

Mama says “on purpose,” but porpoises are funnier and also good swimmers, which is important if a tree falls over into the ocean.

Our tree will not fall because Daddy tied it with string that looks invisible unless you are me.

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