Sylvia and Luke appear to have the perfect life. A thriving fashion startup, a beautiful four-year-old daughter, and a love that began when they met at Harvard Business School. But beneath the surface, Luke hides a dark secret-he's the heir to one o...
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I return her embrace, feeling a rush of nostalgia and gratitude wash over me. "Maria," I say, my voice choking with emotion. "I never thought I'd see you again."
She pulls back, her hands resting on my shoulders as she looks over me with a mixture of pride and concern. "I was worried sick when you ran away twenty years ago," she admits, her eyes shining with tears. "But look at you now. You've grown into such a fine man."
I smile gratefully at her words, feeling a sense of warmth and comfort wash over me in her presence. Turning to Sylvia, I introduce them with a sense of relief. "Sylvia, this is Maria," I say. “She used to take care of me, she’s like family to me.”
“Nice to meet you.” Sylvia shakes Maria’s hand. I’m glad Maria’s presence brings a sense of comfort and safety to Sylvia, something I couldn’t even offer her right now. “Do you by any chance know where our daughter is?” Sylvia asks her, but Maria turns to me, not understanding what Sylvia just said since she doesn’t speak any other language other than Italian.
Sylvia's brow furrows as Maria's confused expression becomes apparent. The hope that flickered for a brief moment dims, replaced by a fresh wave of frustration. "She doesn't understand me, does she?" Sylvia asks, her voice laced with disappointment.
Maria shakes her head sadly, murmuring something in Italian that loosely translates to "Lost in translation, my dear."
Seeing Sylvia's growing frustration, I take charge. "Maria," I say, switching to Italian for her benefit, "Questa è Sylvia, mia moglie. E nostra figlia, Lyria, dov'è?"
Relief floods the room like a burst dam, momentarily washing away the tension that had gripped them. Maria's eyes, usually crinkled with concern, softens with a knowing smile.
"Lyria, mi cara Lyria," she cooes, her voice thick with emotion. "Non devi preoccuparti di lei, mia cara Sylvia. È con la madre di Luca, La signora Biancchi si è presa cura di lei in tua assenza.". Relief floods through me as Maria assures us that Lyria is safe with my mother.
Stepping forward, I take on the role of translator, conveying Maria's words to Sylvia, who visibly relaxes upon hearing the news. I watch Sylvia's tense stance loosen up a bit, her shoulders easing down as she lets out a sigh. Her eyes, once full of worry, now seem a bit brighter. It's a small moment of calm in the middle of all this chaos, a little bit of relief in each other's company.
"Potresti prepararti per la cena ora, visto che sta per essere servita, e nell'armadio ci sono dei vestiti a disposizione per cambiarti," Maria adds.
"We should get ready, they’re about to serve dinner," I tell Sylvia, echoing Maria's suggestion.
Sylvia nods, a flicker of gratitude in her eyes as she realizes the practicality of Maria's advice. "Right, let's get ready," she agrees, her voice more composed now that our daughter”s whereabouts have been confirmed.
As Sylvia heads towards the closet to change, I turn to Maria with a thankful smile. "Thank you for looking out for us," I say sincerely, appreciating her presence and the reassurance she brings to both Sylvia and me during this trying time.
As Maria leaves our room, the weight of my deception settles on me like a suffocating blanket. This family dinner wouldn't just be about confronting my past; it would be about facing the future with Sylvia, a relationship built on a foundation of shattered trust.
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