Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 73250 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 366(@200wpm)___ 293(@250wpm)___ 244(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 73250 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 366(@200wpm)___ 293(@250wpm)___ 244(@300wpm)
The silence was long and deadly. I couldn’t bear it a second longer, so I filled it with asked something I’d wished to know since I first laid eyes on him.
“How old are you?” came the hesitant question.
He pulled up his pants, buttoned and zipped them, then answered brusquely, “Thirty-seven.”
Oh. Wow. Okay then.
He was much older than I thought.
I didn’t really know what else to say. I guess conversation wasn’t really Ettore’s thing either because once he shrugged on his shirt and slipped on his shoes, he held onto his jacket and tie then moved towards the open doorway.
I couldn’t hide the way my expression fell and my gut sank heavily.
Baffled, I stood on shaky legs and gripped the edge of the comforter, pulling it up and around me as I rushed to follow him. I paused three-quarters of the way down the stairs, watching him in the foyer, and I had to have sounded pathetic when I asked a quietly flustered, “Where are you going?”
He didn’t even look at me as he finished buttoning his shirt and spoke tonelessly, “Listen, I gotta go. You’ll find clothes in the dresser and the kitchen has been stocked.”
What?
I was flabbergasted when he ended on, “Make yourself comfortable,” before opening the front door, stepping out and closing it behind him with a firm snick.
Numb, I stumbled into the next room and watched through the window as he stepped into his SUV, started the engine and backed out of the driveway. My heart clenched as he drove away without hesitation.
Here I had been worried about what came next. The shared space. The sleeping arrangements. Being somebody’s wife and a stepmother to three children.
As it turned out, I hadn’t needed to be.
Chapter 11
A gilded cage
Vittoria
Ettore didn’t come back that night, or the next day, or the day after that. Maybe I was foolishly naïve, but after a week, it finally hit me and my heart sank.
He wasn’t coming back at all.
Ettore had abandoned me.
I began to pack a small bag. I didn’t feel right about taking too much from a closet full of clothes that weren’t my own. And, yes, I believe they had been purchased for me, seeing as they were all in my size and still had tags on them, but still. Ettore may have been my husband, but it was clear to me now. He would not take me as his wife. Not in the traditional sense anyways.
Up until now, I hadn’t even tried to leave. It was pathetic, but I waited. I waited for Ettore to return. I convinced myself he would, but he’d left me here without my phone and when I attempted to use the landline in the kitchen, there was no dial tone. I couldn’t call anyone and even if I did, I didn’t know exactly where I was. So, I paced for days. I cleaned an already clean house. I read from the books in the library without actually taking in a single word. I watched television with open eyes and zero understanding. I cooked, but didn’t have much of an appetite so I ate only when my body began to loudly protest. I slept in the master bedroom with eyes closed tightly and my heart beat drumming in my ears.
I went about the motions of living. And still, I waited.
With every day spent alone, my anxiety grew and grew. It was day seven when I woke feeling completely unrested that I became agonizingly aware of the fact that that my husband was not coming back.
It hurt. God, did it hurt.
I cried that morning. I curled up underneath the crisp sheets, covered my head and wept for hours. Those tears followed me throughout the house for majority of the day as I shuffled from room to room not knowing what to do with myself. They dripped from my eyes without permission, trailing my cheeks, even when I didn’t have the strength to cry anymore. The sadness faded out and my body went numb, still they leaked from me.
I hated myself for the show of weakness. I was grateful nobody was around to witness the breaking of my soft heart.
One question lingered in my mind.
What do I do now?
In the entirety of my life, I rarely made a single decision on my own. My sister commanded almost every aspect of my existence. Who I saw and how I dressed. I had thoughts of my own, of course, but Vincenza was dictatorial. We didn’t conversate. She spoke at me. I was told what to do, and I did it. My opinion was inconsequential. She even convinced me of what I liked and disliked. I didn’t enjoy the way we lived, but, after what she’d been through, I didn’t have the strength to fight her.
She was all I knew.
So, I took what little I could and decided to head back home.