Because this story didn’t end in Florence.
It didn’t end in Naples either.
It ended in a new apartment with good morning light, in a bank account that no longer bled for other people’s appearances, in a blocked contact list, in my father’s letter folded soft at the seams from rereading, in a family that finally had to look at itself without using me as the mirror.
And if my mother still has that four-foot monument in her living room, if she still catches her reflection in the glass behind every receipt and wire transfer and invoice, then good.
Some truths deserve furniture.
And some daughters, once erased, do not come back.
THE END!
