Page 25 of Broken Trust
“Then let me fight it.”
“No.” My eyes stay on the floor numbers as they tick up. “I just want it over.”
Rosa's with my mother this morning. Ma snuck over at seven, told Pa she was going to the market, and practically ripped the baby out of my arms on the doorstep. It's the first time I've been apart from my daughter for more than an hour, and my hands don't know what to do without her. I keep reaching for the diaper bag that isn't on my shoulder.
The conference room has a view over the city stretching out to the hills. Mia and her mother are already seated on the far side of a long glass table, with Avvocato Moretti between them in a suit that probably cost more than my car. Mia's wearing a cream coat, with big dark sunglasses pushed up into her hair like she's stopping by on her way to the airport. My suocera is in black, pearls at her throat, her back ramrod straight.
Mamma and Mia stay seated when I walk in.
“Dante,” Mamma says, nodding at the chair opposite her like she's granting me permission to sit.
I sit. Conti lowers himself into the seat beside me with a small groan and opens his briefcase.
“Shall we begin?” Moretti says, sliding a thick folder over the glass. “My clients have reviewed your offer.”
Conti taps his pen against his notepad. “We've offered the full proceeds from the sale of the marital home, which is considerably more than any court would award in…”
“That's not enough,” Mamma cuts in.
Conti peers at her over his glasses. “Signora, I don't think you realize how…”
“I understand perfectly.” She folds her hands on the table, her rings clicking against the glass. “The house, the savings, every euro in the bank, and the royalties from his books for the next ten years. My daughter's life has been destroyed. She can't show her face in this city. A settlement is the least she's owed.”
I glance at Mia. She's studying her manicure.
“Half of what's in that account belongs to Gia,” I say slowly. “She worked six years in your husband's office to put it there.”
Mamma doesn't even blink. “And?”
“And she's your child too.”
“She stopped being my daughter,” Mamma says, “the day she stood in my garden and humiliated us in front of everyone we know.”
She says it calmly, like she's ordering lunch, and something in my chest goes cold. I've heard her be cruel to Gia a hundred times over the years, sharp little comments about her hair and her weight and her clothes, and I always told myself that's just how Italian mothers are. This is different. She's cut her own child out like a bad stitch, and she doesn't even pretend to be upset about it.
“What about your granddaughter?” I ask.
Mamma's mouth tightens. “What about her?”
“Rosa. Mia's baby. Do you want to see her? Be in her world at all?”
“Dante.” Moretti clears his throat. “Perhaps we could stay focused.”
“This is the point.” I turn to Mia. “Look at me.”
Mia sighs and lifts her eyes to mine, bored and a little annoyed, like I'm a waiter who's brought the wrong order.
“She's two months old,” I tell her. “She's got your nose. She hates having her socks put on, and she falls asleep every time I sing to her, even though I'm tone-deaf. You haven't asked me one single thing about her since she came into the world.”
“Because I don't care.” Mia's voice is flat. “I've told you that already.”
“Then sign the papers.”
Moretti slides a second, thinner folder toward Mia and uncaps a pen for her. She doesn't read a word. She goes straight to the tabs where someone has stuck little yellow arrows and signs at every one, quick and neat, the way she used to sign for packages at Pa's office. It takes less than a minute. When she's done, she caps the pen and pushes the folder back like she's returning a menu.
Just like that, my daughter has no mother.
I stare at the signatures. I thought I'd be angry, or sad, or relieved. Instead my stomach turns. One day Rosa will ask me about the woman who gave birth to her, and I'll have to find a way to explain that she was signed away in a conference room by someone who couldn't be bothered to read the paperwork.
