Page 14 of All is Not Lost
"Your past doesn't define you, Sophia," he reminds me, closing the distance between us and enveloping my hands in his. "My parents aren't Daniel's parents. Give them—and yourself—a chance."
We drive through the winding roads leading up to the villa, and the sight of the rustic stone façade nestled among the rolling hills sends another wave of nerves crashing over me. I grip the small gift tighter in my hands, reminding myself it’s too late to back out now.
"Is this really necessary?" I ask as we park the car. My heart is a terrier inside my chest, all nervous energy and frantic yapping. “We just met a few weeks ago. Isn’t it too early to meet your parents? Do I need to go inside?”
"Absolutely," Giovanni chuckles, not unkindly. His laughter is a balm, soothing the edges of my anxiety. "Besides, they're more scared of meeting you than you are of them. You’re the woman who stole their son's heart. That's no small thing."
I stare at him. How does he come up with those sentences? It seems surreal and cringy, but coming from him, it’s just right for some reason. I don’t understand it.
As he leads me to the door, his hand firm in mine, I realize there's truth in his words. I did unknowingly take something precious from them, and it's time to show I'm worthy of the treasure they gave life to.
Where did that come from? Am I turning into him now? Saying cheesy stuff?
Oh, dear.
"Ready?" he asks, squeezing my hand as we stand on the threshold.
"Ready as I’ll ever be," I reply, even if it’s a lie. I just want to throw up at this point. Or drink. Whichever comes first.
The door swings open, and there she stands—Rosaria Bianchi, the matriarch of a family I'm desperate to impress for reasons I don’t yet understand. Her smile is as warm as the Italian sun that bathes the vine-covered hills surrounding us yet she seems guarded somehow by the sight of me.
"Benvenuta, Sophia!" she exclaims.
"Thank you," I manage, my voice steadier than I feel. The nervous terrier inside me calms, curling up for a nap in the sunbeam of her welcome. She pulls me into a quick embrace, and the scent of rosemary and fresh bread envelops me, grounding me in this moment, in this new world that's slowly opening its doors to me.
"Come in, come in," she urges with a gesturing hand, leading me into the heart of their home.
Before I can take in more than the rustic charm of the foyer, Marco Bianchi's presence fills the space. His handshake is firm, his grip strong enough to steady a ship in a storm.
"Marco, please, call me Sophia," I say, surprised by how much I mean it.
"Then, Sophia it shall be," he replies, his eyes crinkling with a smile that feels like an unspoken promise of things to come.Yet there is something else in them that I can’t quite grasp. A reluctance.
We awkwardly settle into the cramped living room, family photos hanging crookedly on the walls. Rosaria plops down on the worn floral sofa, gesturing for me to sit next to her. I reluctantly wedge myself onto the cushion, trying not to wrinkle my expensive dress. Giovanni takes a seat across from us while Marco looms over us with his arms crossed.
"So, Sophia," Rosaria says, her voice dripping with fake sweetness, "tell us about yourself and your family."
I can feel a shift in the atmosphere in the room as I recount my story, carefully omitting any mention of my wealthy background and troubled relationship with my parents. Rosaria's eyes narrow suspiciously when I mention our small bakery in New York, and she exchanges a knowing look with her husband.
"Ah, panetteria," Marco interjects. "You know the value of hard work then?"
My smile falters as I sense their disapproval and judgment. Maybe they were expecting someone more traditional and less… complicated, like their son's previous girlfriend.
"I'm not Italian," I admit, bracing myself for their reaction.
"Clearly," Rosaria says.
"But I've always been fascinated by your culture," I hurriedly add, trying to win them over. "The food, the art…."
"Of course," Marco interrupts coldly, his eyes unimpressed. "Another American tourist enamored with our country."
I struggle to find common ground with them. I suddenly don’t even know what I’m doing there. Why am I trying so hard to make them like me? Every attempt falls flat, and I feel increasingly like an outsider in this close-knit Italian family.
"Tell us one of your favorite stories from back home," Marco says.
I take a deep breath before launching into a tale about my family's bakery during a holiday rush. But instead of being met with interest and warmth, I see judgment and superiority in Rosaria's and Marco's eyes.
"Sounds like quite the adventure," Marco says with a chuckle.