Until she got sick.

My mother was diagnosed with stage four breast cancer my Freshman year of college. And it all happened so quickly. 

She begged me to have a normal life, to tell her stories about college when I was home on the weekends; she refused to let me see her as she got sick. Wanted to act that while I was supposed to live it was okay if she was dying. 

The girls were there with me, coming home with me and meeting my mother when she was at the weakest part of her life.

There were good days, where Becca did her makeup and Madeline and Tessa cooked. Sammie would bring records over and we’d have dinner together with this blended family of mine. 

It was like my mother was showering the girls with memories so that when she left they could try to fill the hole that she left me with.

But by Junior year I was well aware that my mother wasn’t going to see me graduate. It was just one of many milestones in my life that she was going to not be there for.

“I want to see the fireworks.” 

My mother was in the hospital at this point and it was the unspoken truth that this time she wouldn’t be coming home to us. 

My father was at home, gathering a few things my mother asked about so it was just the two of us in the hospital. The girls having given us some space to just be together.

“Ilaria, it’s okay.”

She was brave, knew what she wanted in a way that I didn’t think I would ever be. It was her idea to get in the wheelchair, tell the nurse it was just a bit of fresh air. But she had stolen a key and we made it to the roof of Mass General. Listening as the sound of the Pops drifted towards us. 

July 4th.

My mothers favorite holiday. 

Maybe it was because of her apple pie veins that she loved it so much but in the time before we always had big parties in the backyard. My father would shoot off illegal fireworks bought in New Hampshire and my mother would tell him he was going to blow his hands off. But I knew that he did the show every year because they were her favorite.

“I’m going to die, Ilaria.”

She said it so plainly like she was headed to the store to get something but I could feel her words, making me choke on air as she reached out a hand to take mine. 

I wasn’t sure when her hand had gotten so thin, her skin thinner than before with veins bulging in them.

Was this really the same hand that slid through the knots in my hair when I was a kid? 

The same hand that twirled me around the kitchen as we listened to old records and sing with our spatula microphones when Papa was away on business? 

Was this the same hand that zipped my prom dress up for me when she told me I was beautiful?

“No.”

I shook my head, that childlike sense washing over me. My mama couldn’t die. I needed her. There was so much that I needed to ask her, needed her to tell me, and moments I couldn’t live without her by my side. 

And she was being taken from me. 

“She held my hands and told me that she loved fireworks. That she hoped she could see them from heaven. She told me she loved me. She told me that she’d always be there, up in the sky shining down and watching me. She told me Papa might have been the love of her life but me, I was her greatest love story. And then she made me look at her, kissed my forehead one more time as she looked me in the eyes and said I had to say goodbye to her now. That we got to have a goodbye. And I was too scared to not listen. I hugged her and told her I loved her. That I would make her proud and…she let me hold her as she left. The finale of the fireworks behind us as the nurse came onto the roof for a cigarette and found me holding my dead mother.” I wiped at my eyes as if it was going to do anything against the tears that flowed down my face, “So that’s why I cry when I look at fireworks because I’m looking for my mama.”

Dante held me against him, another sob slipping through me as I let myself grieve, to cry against him as he stroked my hair, laying soft kisses on the crown of my head.

He pulled me away from him after a moment, slipping his thumb over my cheek as he caught some of the tears that were falling.

“We can have fireworks every night if you want, principessa. I can’t wait to see them and know your mother is with us.”

He was so serious, I didn’t think what he was saying was crazy and at that moment I realized that Dante might be the man my mother had always wanted for me. Maybe she had sent him to me to save me from everything.

Maybe Dante could make me fall in love.

20DANTE

“Ilaria, I’m going to the gym.”

It feels so mundane and average to call out and announce that I’m leaving the house but I feel my heart soar when I do it.

How much time have I been wasting being a playboy when I’m really meant to be a house husband?

Slipping my keys into my palm I wait for her reply and instead see her rushing from the kitchen, something in both her hands.

“I made you a smoothie. You should have protein before your workout.”

Her eyes travel down, one of those perfectly manicured brows lifting as she looks me up and down. I’m just in gym shorts and a t-shirt with the sleeves cut off, nothing that deserves the look she is giving me.

But I like her looking at me like I’m her next meal.

“Look at your slutty little thighs in your hoochie daddy shorts. Turn around and shake that ass for me, sweetheart.”

She is joking with me and as much as I’d like to indulge her objectifying me I have a training session that I need to get to.

So I just roll my eyes at her comment, grabbing for my gym bag that is sitting on the new bench that showed up at the house.

Lots of little things have shown up at the house.

Pillows for the couch, a small patio set for the balcony, and random things that don’t seem to fit in my kitchen.

The penthouse is getting the Ilaria treatment and I love that she is making it a mix of us both.

“Thanks for the smoothie, princess.” She shrugs, reaching for her work bag as I take her in, all cream colored dress and matching heels. I remember this is her first day back in the office.

She had kept me up most of the night with her nervous pacing as she typed out her resignation letter. Reading it to me as she made corrections and asked if it sounded okay.

I didn’t want to tell her that it didn’t matter what she said to them. She’d never have to work a job she didn’t want again.

After a week off she was going to quit, working only one last week and giving herself a week to work on the wedding we would be having on the 22nd.

“Are you driving to work?” I question as we head out together.