Chapter 16
Camilla sent another birthday card when Livia turned six.
Domenico did not decide whether she should receive it alone.
That mattered.
He brought the request to Livia’s therapist.
Then to Livia.
“Aunt Camilla sent something?”
“A card.”
“Same as before?”
“I haven't read it.”
Livia looked surprised.
“You can.”
“I could.”
“Then why not?”
“Because it was written to you.”
She thought about that.
Then:
“Can you read if I say?”
“Yes.”
That was different.
The card arrived inside a plain envelope.
No gift.
No photograph.
No request for a meeting.
Livia sat beside Domenico on the library floor.
Not his desk.
The floor had become easier for conversations where he wanted to remember he was her father before anything else.
He opened the card.
Camilla had written:
Happy sixth birthday, Livia.
I still remember you asking for pink frosting because you said white frosting looked tired.
I hope you have a good day.
I am sorry for hurting you.
Camilla.
Livia frowned.
“I said white tired?”
“Yes.”
“That's funny.”
“It was.”
She looked at the card again.
Then:
“Why she hit me?”
Domenico became still.
They had discussed that Camilla made a terrible choice.
Not the emotion beneath it.
He did not know all of it.
That mattered.
“I know she was angry.”
“Because vase?”
“Partly.”
“Mommy letter?”
Domenico looked at her.
Livia remembered more than adults expected.
“Aunt Camilla knew your mother had hidden something inside the vase.”
“So when broke, letter came.”
“Yes.”
“And she mad.”
“Yes.”
Livia's expression changed.
“She hit because Mommy?”
“I don't know exactly what she was thinking when she hit you.”
Good.
No invented certainty.
“But she knew the letter might be found.”
“Yes.”
Livia thought.
“Can ask?”
Domenico's first instinct was no.
Too young.
Too painful.
Then he stopped.
The question was simple.
Camilla could answer simply.
Through the therapist.
Through counsel.
No direct conversation.
Livia dictated:
WHY DID YOU HIT ME?
Camilla's response took eleven days.
One page.
Domenico did not read it first.
The therapist did.
Then Livia asked Domenico to read it aloud.
Camilla wrote:
I was angry about the vase.
I was also frightened because I knew something Elena had hidden might be inside it.
When you broke the vase, I panicked.
None of those feelings gave me permission to hit you.
You were three.
You had an accident.
I was the adult.
Livia listened.
Then:
“She was scared of letter.”
“Yes.”
“Still hit.”
“Yes.”
Both.
The distinction was becoming familiar.
Fear could explain why someone reacted.
It did not make the reaction safe.
Livia took a crayon.
On the bottom of Camilla's page she wrote:
I DIDN'T KNOW LETTER THERE.
Domenico looked at her.
“You want to send that?”
“Yes.”
He did.
Camilla replied with one sentence.
I know.
No apology repeated.
No request for more.
That mattered.
A month later Livia knocked a glass off the breakfast table.
It shattered.
She froze.
Domenico saw.
For half a second she was three again.
Then the housekeeper said:
“Stay still. There's glass.”
No anger.
No gasp about cost.
No hand raised.
Domenico lifted Livia away while the floor was cleaned.
Livia looked down.
“Expensive?”
“No.”
“What if yes?”
He remembered the bridal suite.
Things cost money.
You don't.
“Same answer.”
Livia smiled slightly.
Then:
“Good.”
The broken glass went into the trash.
Nobody saved it.
May you like
Nobody turned it into evidence.
Sometimes an accident was allowed to remain only an accident.
