Chapter 11
Cecilia met me three days later.
Diner.
Again, apparently estranged relatives prefer neutral food.
She was fifty-three.
Gray at the temples.
Same eyes I remembered.
We stood.
Neither moved.
Then she hugged me.
Twenty-six years collapsed badly.
Not beautifully.
We cried.
We laughed.
We got angry.
All in ten minutes.
Grace came later.
My niece.
Twenty-four.
She looked like our mother.
That almost ruined me again.
Cecilia brought one thing.
A miniature wooden sailboat.
My father made it for her before she was sent away.
Same style as the three wrapped models I had been carrying when I found my children strapped to luggage.
I stared.
“Where did you get this?”
“Dad mailed it after he tried to reconcile.”
The letter Vincent never sent had not been the only attempt.
My father sent the sailboat through someone else.
Cecilia kept it.
“He knew you liked the lake,” I said.
“He knew I hated boats.”
I laughed.
Of course.
Father was imperfect even in reconciliation.
Then Cecilia asked about Milo, Nora, Tess.
I showed photos.
Grace smiled.
“They look loud.”
“They are.”
Good.
Normal.
I asked Cecilia if she wanted to meet them.
“Eventually.”
No rush.
No reclaiming family.
No performance.
Then she looked at me.
“What happens to Vincent?”
“He loses access.”
“That’s all?”
I understood the question.
Twenty-six years stolen.
My children almost taken.
Blood would feel proportional.
But Cecilia surprised me.
“Good.”
I frowned.
She continued.
“If you kill him, he becomes the reason everyone gathers.”
True.
“If you exile him from power, everyone has to learn they can live without him.”
Better.
Older sister.
Still teaching.
We talked for three hours.
Before leaving, she handed me the wooden sailboat.
“No.”
I pushed it back.
“Dad gave it to you.”
She smiled.
“I’m not giving it to Ferrante.”
Then:
May you like
“I’m giving it to Ben.”
I took it.
